


P.S. 35, Hell's Kitchen

by martial-quill (martial_quill), martial_quill



Series: young, scrappy, and hungry [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternating Points of View, Blood Family, Darejones, Dorothy Walker's A+ Parenting, F/M, Family of Choice, Gen, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 12:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 54,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12817173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martial_quill/pseuds/martial-quill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/martial_quill/pseuds/martial_quill
Summary: Matt Murdock is five years old when he makes his first friend. Her name is Jessica Jones, her hair is braided tightly back from her face, she has a gap between her two front teeth, and the whole thing starts with an argument of the proper placement of the bucket of pencils on the table they're sharing."They're supposed to be in the middle!" Jessica says, yanking the bucket from his grip and setting them there. Her eyes are hazel, and narrowed in her anger.Matt narrows his eyes right back at her. "And that is not the middle," he says, pointing at the bucket. "This–" he reaches across the desk, tapping the centre –"is the middle."Or: the Mess childhood friends AU that nobody asked me for.





	1. We Were Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, Jessica is a tiny guile heroine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's start at the beginning.

Matt Murdock is five years old when he makes his first friend. Her name is Jessica Jones, her hair is braided tightly back from her face, and she has a gap between her two front teeth. The whole thing starts with an argument of the proper placement of the bucket of pencils on the table they're sharing.

"They're supposed to be in the middle!" Jessica says, yanking the bucket from his grip and setting them there. Her eyes are hazel, and narrowed in her anger.

Matt narrows his eyes right back at her. "And _that_ is not the middle," he says, pointing at the bucket. "This–" he reaches across the desk, tapping the centre –"is the middle."

The argument continues for another five minutes, before Mrs. Allan intervenes, putting the bucket at the edge of the desk closest to the front of the classroom.

“That,” she says, sternly, “is _enough_.”

But maybe Matt’s Nana is right, when she looks at him and his father and says, with a voice caught between laughter and tears, “Murdock boys, always got the devil in you”, because the second Mrs. Allan turns her back, he can’t resist the urge to tug the bucket back to where it _should be._

He doesn’t expect for Jessica’s fingers to close around his, her eyebrows drawn into a frown, lips pursed. He thinks that’s the word for what her mouth is doing.

“Right!” Mrs. Allan snaps. “Matt, ten minutes in that corner. Jessica, ten minutes in _that_ corner. I want you to think _very hard_ about what you’ve just done.”

Slowly, Matt stands and shuffles to the corner that Mrs. Allan is pointing at.

He’d so obviously been right. You were _supposed_ to put the bucket into the middle, so that both kids could reach them. Why couldn’t she see that?

Two minutes into quiet time, and Matt can almost hear his Dad’s sigh. _Kid, what have I told you about pickin’ fights?_

He bites his lip. This was not how he’d planned for his first day of kindergarten to go. _Make friends,_ _be good, it’ll be okay,_ had been what Dad said.

He glances at Jessica. She’s shifting on her feet, not the way the boxers at Dad’s gym do. It’s different; lighter, more nervous, less confident.

Her eyes meet his, and she looks– startled? Embarrassed?

She bites her lip and her head snaps back to face the wall.

Matt sighs, and stares at his corner. It’s less interesting.

Maybe they could have been friends, he thinks, gloom rolling across him like a storm front.

They’re let out of their corners, ten minutes later, and then it’s time for recess. The playground is mostly grey, except for one spot over to the right, which is covered in colourful rubber beneath the monkey bars.

He doesn’t expect Jessica to walk up to him, her lunchbox in her hand. Silently, she opens it and offers him the juice pouch.

_What? I thought you didn’t want to be friends._

“The teacher was being stupid,” she says.

It’s not an apology, but Matt will take that.

“Totally stupid,” Matt agrees, taking the juice pouch. “Thanks.”

She smiles, and the next ten minutes are spent hurrying through their snacks because Jessica wants to try out the monkey bars. 

* * *

 

By the end of the day, Matt knows five things about Jessica. She has a brother called Phil, and her Dad cried a tiny little bit when she came to school today, for some reason. Dads are weird. Her favourite colour is purple, and out of the juice pouches, the berry juice pouches are her favourite, but no juice pouch is as good as the granola bars that her Mom sometimes makes.

They are sitting in the corner by the book shelf, steadily working their way through _Flat Stanley._

“He really should have a bruise,” Jessica tells him. Her shoes have been kicked off, and her hair is falling out of its braid.

“Not _a_ bruise. Lots of them,” Matt corrects her.

“Like that guy?” Jessica asks, pointing at the door of the classroom.

Matt glances up to find his Dad hovering in the doorway of the classroom. The bruise around his eye has faded to a greenish colour.

“Hi, Dad,” Matt grins at him.

“Hey, Matty. You having fun?”

“ _Flat Stanley_ should be a giant bruise,” Matt tells Dad.

Dad looks the same way he does when he finds Matt reading the dictionary. “Prob’ly,” he agrees, walking over to them. “What’s your name, little miss?”

Jessica tilts her head to the side, mouth pursed a little as she looks at his Dad. He looks back at her, steadily, and Matt’s reminded of the way the boxers in the ring at each other look before the fight. Feeling each other out.

“Jessica,” she says.

“Hi, Jessica. I’m Jack Murdock,” he says, sticking out his hand.

Slowly, Jessica takes Dad’s hand, and shakes it. “Hi, Jack.”

There’s something warm curling through Matt’s chest, like how he feels when his Dad kisses his forehead, at the way they nod at each other. It curls up his chest, up into his face, tugs his mouth into a smile.

Then Dad ruffles Matt’s hair. “Time to go to Gran’s place, kiddo.”

Matt glances at Jessica, worry flickering through him. “But Dad–”

“C’mon, Matty,” Dad says, plucking the book from his hands and setting it on the shelf. “Time to go. You have school again tomorrow.”

Jessica sighs beside Matt, and wraps one arm around his shoulder, then draws it back quickly. “Sit together tomorrow?”

Matt smiles back at her. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

Dad is chuckling beside Matt, pulling him to his feet. “C’mon, slugger. Time to go, where’s your backpack?”

They find it, and Jessica reluctantly puts her shoes on at Jack’s suggestion, because her parents will be there pretty soon as well.

“Bye, Jess!” Matt yells, at the doorway.

“Bye, Matt! 

* * *

 

Tuesday, and there they are, Matty and his friend, curled up in the reading corner. The book cover is different, though. It’s green, not purple, today.

He bumps into another man trying to get through the door, and has to steady him.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Jack says.

The guy smiles. He’s maybe 5”10, in a T-shirt and dark jeans, a few years older than Jack. He does a bit of a double-take when he sees Jack’s face, though, and whistles.

“Damn. Please tell me you gave the other guy hell.”

Jack sighs. “I like to think so. Matt! Kiddo, time to put the book away!”

Matt, predictably, does not hear him, even though Jack knows for a fact that his voice was pitched at the right volume.

The guy looks a little startled at that. “Matt’s your kid?”

Jack can’t help but frown at that. “He startin’ to get a rep already?”

“Jessie didn’t stop talking about him all night last night,” the guy says, with a wry smile. “She was very excited.”

 _Ohh_ , that makes a lot more sense. Jack lets out a sigh, as relief courses through his system.

“Jack Murdock,” he says, extending his hand.

The guy takes it. His grip is firm, callused, wedding band on the fourth finger of the left hand. Not another single Dad, then. Grease under the nails. Mechanic?

“Brian Jones,” he says. “Guess it’s time to pull them away, huh?”

“Seems so,” Jack sighs, massaging his temple.

The puppy dog eyes are even worse today than they were yesterday, despite the fact that Matt’s seen his friend again today.

“Nobody warned us that our kids would imprint on other kids,” Brian tells Jack, dryly, before Jack can warn him of his danger.

Sure enough, Matty perks right up, his eyes bright and sparking. Jessica watches the reaction, a smirk tugging at her mouth.

“What’s imprinting?” Matt asks, and as Brian’s jaw goes a little slack, Jack feels a twinge of satisfaction that he’s not the only one who struggles to keep up with his terrifyingly intelligent son.

* * *

 By the end of the week, Jessica has somehow talked both their Dads into letting Matt go to the Jones’ place on Friday.

“How did you do that?” Matt asks her, as soon as the grown-ups are out of earshot.

Jessica tugs at her braid, looking at him with wide eyes. But the corners of her mouth are tilted up.

“Do what?” she asks.

“Make them let us go to your place!” Matt says, giving her braid a single tug. _Gently_ , though. Robbie F. had been pulling Lisa Chang’s pigtails so hard that she’d cried, which was _awful_ , and the idea of Jessica crying sends something painful through Matt’s chest.

Jessica bats his hand away, sticking out her tongue at him.

“I dunno,” she says, looking down at her shoes. They have purple laces, tied in neat little bows. “I just _asked_.”

Matt feels pretty sure there was more to it than that, but Jessica’s cheeks are going pink, and she’s looking away from him. So instead, he asks, “What’s your little brother like?”

Jessica’s nose wrinkles. “Tiny. Mom says he’ll be two soon. He cries a lot.”

“Did you want a little brother?”

She nods. “When Mom and Dad told me. But they didn’t tell me how much he’d cry!”

Matt snorts. “You probably cried a lot.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did _not_.”

“Did too,” Matt says, his smile widening.

“Did _not_ ,” Jessica says, very firmly, but her smile widens too. 

* * *

 

“We should watch _The Aristocats_ ,” Jessica tells Matt, as they walk in the door of her apartment.

“What’s that about?” Matt asks her. Jessica dumps her backpack in the doorway, and her Dad clears his throat.

“Jessica.”

“ _Dad_ ,” she whines, but she picks her backpack up, and gestures at Matt to follow her. They leave their backpacks in her room, and she drags him back into the main room of the apartment. It’s nice. Lots of greys, and splashes of bright colour where Jessica’s toys are stored in boxes on the shelves.

“What’s it about?” Matt asks her again.

“What?”

“ _The Aristocats_. What’s it about?”

“Cats. Who sing. In Paris,” Jessica says, her smile widening, each phrase coming out with a little more to it when Matt seems unimpressed.

“Singing cats in Paris,” Matt repeats, just to make sure he heard right.

“Uh-huh! It’s fun.”

Matt looks at where their Dads are talking in the kitchen. “Do we need to ask them?” he asks.

Jessica shakes her head again and grabs his hand, pulling him towards the VCR.

“Okay, okay,” Matt laughs, as she tugs him towards the pile of videos. Sure enough, there’s one with a bright orange cat and a pretty white cat on the front cover, as well as several kittens and an old man on the cover. “This the one?”

Jessica nods, and Matt likes watching videos, but he likes this even better.

* * *

 “I’m home!” comes a voice from near the door. Jessica’s face lights up, and she launches herself from the couch, before pelting across the apartment. Matt slides off the couch and walks around, frowning as he takes in the scene.

Jessica is wrapped around the new person’s hips. The woman is tall, with long, pale brown hair in a ponytail. She’s wearing dark blue pants and a pretty dark green blouse. The blouse is the same colour as Salvatore from Fogwell's costume.

The woman is chuckling, running her hand over Jessica’s hair.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Mommy, Matt came!” Jessica says, smiling up at her.

Jessica’s Mom glances up and her eyes meet his.

Matt waves, feeling his skin heat. _Why hadn’t he just hidden behind the couch?_

“Hi, honey,” Jessica’s Dad says, quickly kissing her on the lips. “Good day?”

“My freshmen refuse to listen, but what else is new?” she says, smiling at him. She turns to Matt’s Dad, one hand extended already. “You must be Jack. I’m Alyssa.”

Dad shakes her hand, looking amused and a little worried. “Hi. Hope we haven’t put you on the spot, or anythin’.”

“Oh, not much, I’m just a little disorganised today,” she says, with a sigh.

 _Disorganised?_ That one's new. 

Jessica’s tugging at Matt’s hand – “ _Matt, c’mon, I wanna go play with the Legos!–_ but Matt digs in his heels and bends his knees so that she can’t pull him.

“How do you feel about pizza?” Jessica’s Mom asks Dad.

Dad looks uncomfortable. “Oh, I wasn’t planning on – I didn’t mean to – I wouldn’t want to impose–”

Jessica’s Mom smiles at Dad, and jerks their thumb at them.

What? What did _they_ do?

“I’m not sure you’ll be able to pry your son away from her before dinner. Well, not unless you use a crowbar.”

“Matt,” Jessica whines, “come _on_.”

Dad laughs at them, and ruffles Matt’s hair – “go on, Matty, go with Jess-” – before he turns back to Jessica’s Mom. “Pizza sounds amazing.”

At that point, Matt unlocks his knees, and lets Jessica drag him to her room, where the LEGO blocks are jammed into a box.

 

“Why were you worried earlier?” Jessica asks him.

They’ve just been debating the pros and cons of adding lizard monsters to the LEGO city. They’ve finally agreed on it having both lizard monsters and a Princess Barbie to save the city from them.

“Worried?” Matt asks, remembering the way Jessica had scrunched her eyebrows and looked away before on the sidewalk.

“When Mom came home. You looked really worried.”

Matt can’t quite meet her eyes. They’re cool, like the fountains in the water park, and she’s looking at him the way she’d looked at Dad when they met. Like it’s a test.

Matt gives in. “Not everyone likes my Dad,” he says, at last. “‘Cos of his job. He’s a boxer.”

Not everyone at church likes it. Mrs Mackenzie still wrinkles her nose when she sees Dad and when she thinks no-one is looking. 

“Oh. Not everyone likes my Mom, either. Nobody likes math,” Jessica says, her nose wrinkling.

“Your Mom must like it,” Matt points out, even as he feels ten times lighter that Jessica doesn’t care. “She _teaches_ it.”

Jessica sighs. “Mom doesn’t count, Matt.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he agrees, because Jessica likes it when she wins. “We should build a tower here.” He taps an unoccupied spot on the grid.

Constructing the tower to a standard they’re both happy with takes them until Jessica’s Mom knocks on the door and says, “Jessica, Matt, it’s time to set the table!”  

* * *

 

The first time someone bothers Matt when he walks over to the reading corner, it’s Robbie F.

Jessica doesn’t like Robbie F. She knows Matt doesn’t either, because his mouth twists and his eyes go dark whenever he bothers someone. He’s normally in Mrs. Nolan’s class, but today, they’re combining nap-time for both classes.

Matt hates nap-time. He says it’s too quiet. But Jessica loves it, and she falls asleep next to Matt, her face turned towards him. “So I can look after you,” she had explained when Matt asked her.

Matt had wrinkled his nose. “I don’t need you to look after me.”

“Yes, you do,” Jessica had insisted. “I brung another juice pouch.”

“Brought,” Matt had corrected her. “Thank you.”

She had rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

But today, Robbie F. had fallen asleep near them, which had made them share a glance, because not Robbie. Jessica curls a little closer into Matt for nap time that day.

After nap time is over, they have free time for half an hour, to play and to think, and in Matt and Jessica’s case, to read. So when the teacher claps her hands, waking them up, Jessica opens her eyes, blearily, and Matt is already getting up, hopping over her and walking over to the book-shelf, a little frown on his face.

Robbie F. puts himself between Matt and the bookshelf.

“Ugh, don’t you get bored?” There’s a smile on his lips that Jessica doesn’t like at all. “You’re a know-it-all.”

But that’s _wrong_ , because that’s _Jack’s_ name for Matt, with a laugh in his mouth and a soft tilt to his smile, when he asks them what they learned and Matt tells him exactly what the teacher said.

It’s not supposed to make Matt hesitate, his hand drawing back from the book-shelf, his whole body stilling, face lowering as if to curl in on himself.

Jessica gets to her feet, and walks right up to Robbie F, and tells him in her meanest, scariest tone to _“Stop it!”_

He flinches a little, and she steps forward again. “Go _away_ ,” she orders, her heart pounding, fingers flexing. Then Matt is grabbing her hand, a blue book already in his other hand.

“Get off me! He was _being mean_ to you!”

“I don’t want you to get into trouble, he’s not worth it!” Matt whispers, his eyes worried. She sucks in a quick breath, startled, and Matt shakes his head again. “He’s not worth it, Jessica. That’s what Dad always says.”

“He needs to _stop_ ,” Jessica tells Matt. “He pulled Lisa’s pigtails, he kicked Jason in the sandpit, now he’s being mean to you!”

“Punching him isn’t going to fix this!”

Jessica huffs, but Matt has that frown he was wearing last week, when they argued about the pencils and they both got in trouble. She doesn’t want that again.

“Fine, I won’t punch him,” she says.

Matt’s eyebrows bounce. “Really?”

“Yes!”

“Yes, you will punch him, or yes, you won’t?”

“Yes, I won’t punch him!” 

* * *

 

“Jessica, what’re you doing?”

Matt sounds confused, like Allie B. when she'd mixed up the names for the colours. But Jessica's not sure looking down to check is a good idea.

She grunts as she strains, and pushes the window up.

“Jessica, stop!”

Ooh. The floor actually looks kind of far away from where she is now.

“ _Jess!”_ Matt is angry, now, and she bites her lip, gripping the sill very hard from where she’s balancing on it. She hears a grunt, a few bad words – Matt uses them sometimes, and then looks _em-ba-rrassed_ , Mrs. Allan had used that word today – and then Matt is on the sill beside her.

She jumps, and lands in a crouch, before getting up. She feels a rush of pride as she looks around Mrs. Nolan’s classroom.

Step one, complete.

“Jessica, _why are we in here?”_

“You made me promise I wouldn’t punch him.”

“So we’re sneaking into – this is about Robbie F?!”

“He needs to _stop_ , Matt.” Jessica holds up one hand, the way she’s seen people in movies do sometimes, when they really need to make the other person see they’re right. “Lisa’s pigtails. Jason in the sandpit. You.”

Matt says, “Ugh, _fine_ ,” and five minutes later, Robbie F’s chair has a thin layer of clear glue on it, before they walk out the door of Mrs. Nolan’s classroom.

The next time Robbie F bothers someone in nap time, Jessica grabs a glue-stick from the bucket, uncaps it, and smiles her best smile at Robbie.

He blinks, his mouth opening and closing, his eyes going very big, and then he steps back, once, twice, three times.

This, Jessica thinks, is winning.

(She likes it.)


	2. What Matt and Jessica Did Last Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin.

It’s an incredibly hot day in June. Matt is kicking out under his desk, as he waits beside Jessica, for the last day of school to end. There’s a heavy feeling in his stomach that he doesn’t like at all, his body already feels way too warm, the fan is making a weird cranking noise as it slowly rotates, and he sighs. Life is _horrible_.

No school means more time at Fogwell’s. Probably more time with his Nana. But that’s not why it’s horrible. He likes Fogwell’s, and he likes his Nana.

But no school, he thinks, panic rising in his throat, might mean not seeing his first real friend for _three whole months_ , which is impossibly far away.

“It’s almost here,” Jessica whispers to him. “Ten minutes left.”

Matt scoffs. “It is _not_.”

It can't be. For it to be ten minutes left means the moment is passing, quicker and quicker, slipping right through his fingers like water when he washes his hands. There _can't_ be ten minutes left.

“Is so!” Jessica says, rolling her eyes at him. She’s been practising all week.

But then she looks at him the way he saw her look at the patch of the grass when it caught fire after they played with a magnifying glass. The way she looks at puzzles, sometimes, when she feels like puzzles.

“Why are you worried?” she asks him, softly.

Matt scoffs again. “I’m not worried.”

Jessica tilts her head back a little, and she nods. “You really are.”

Matt huffs. Jessica’s his friend, and he likes her, but he doesn’t like the way she can read _him_ like he can read _Ramona Quimby_. She pokes out her tongue at him, and they’re silent for a minute.

Nine minutes now. Dammit.

“Summer is good, too,” she says, when he glances at the clock. “School’s good, but summer is good, too. We can play in the water park, and Mom says it’s time to learn to swim. And go to the library, and find more books.”

“Dad doesn’t have a library card.” He’d asked.

“Mom does,” Jessica says, smirking at him.

Something clicks, then, something she’d said earlier. “Wait. We?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, _we_. Duh, Matt.” Her tone is exasperatingly knowing, but Matt’s not stuck on that because–

_What?_

She must see something in his face, because she reaches over and pokes at his shoulder. “You’re my best friend.”

There’s a lump in his throat, heavy and awful, and Matt doesn’t know what to say.

So he reaches over and pokes back.

Eventually, three words come.

“You’re mine too,” he manages.

She smiles at him, big and bright.

 

The next morning, there’s a knock on the apartment door, and Matt rolls out of bed to answer it. Dad’s still sleeping, after he’s finally been cleared from a concussion.

Jessica and her Dad are standing on the other side of the door. Phil’s there, too, in his pram, his dummy in his mouth, hair soft and fluffy. Jessica’s grinning at him.

“Morning, Matt. Is your Dad awake?” her Dad asks.

Matt shakes his head. “He’s sleeping. Had a fight last night. Con-cussion,” he says, without stumbling over the word too much.

Brian hesitates, and Matt steps back out of the doorway. “You can come in,” he offers.

“Actually, we were wondering if you wanted to come to the park with us,” her Dad says slowly. “But if your Dad’s not awake–”

“Matt? Who’s at the door?” Dad’s voice comes, as he walks into the hallway. His hand goes to rub his eye, and he winces, thinking twice.

“Jess and her Dad,” Matt tells him, and Dad looks startled.

“Oh, so it is. Hey, Brian, hey Jess,” he says.

Brian is whistling. “ _Geez_ , Murdock.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Concussion stopped?”

“I’m clear for now. What can I do for you?”

“You and Matt have plans? Jessica was hoping to steal him for a trip to the park.”

“Please, Dad?” Matt asks him, giving his Dad his big-eyed pleading look.

Dad grumbles, “Quit it with the puppy dog eyes, kid, you can go.” Then he glances at Brian. “When do you plan to give him back?”

Brian’s smile is wry. “Oh, before lunch. I don’t want them out in the heat.”

Dad sighs, but he smiles back. “Thanks. Appreciate it. Matty, you need to go and put pants on if you’re leaving the house.”

Matt glances down. Oh, crap, Dad’s right. He’s been wearing his old pajamas. In front of _Jess._

He may or may not yelp before fleeing to his room. Dad’s chuckle follows him, the sound soft and tired and it calms Matt a little.

Not much, though.

 

The air outside the apartment is weird, when they step outside. It’s heavy. Jessica’s hand is clammy in his when they cross the streets, following Brian’s stern instruction to “Hold hands, kids.” Every moment where they walk through the shadows of cast by rooves and by awnings is  a measure of relief.

Phil is crying, and Brian is sighing.

“Kiddo,” Brian says, the sound weary, like Dad when he’s come home after a fight gone bad, and Jessica rolls her eyes, flinching from the sound.

“Dumb baby,” she says.

“Hey, he’s not _dumb,_ Jessica,” Brian says, his tone sharp, and Matt winces a little at the edge in his voice. It’s the first time he’s ever heard the easygoing man sound _angry._

Jessica blinks, takes a tiny step back – if Matt hadn’t been watching fights since his eyes opened, he wouldn’t have seen it – and she nods, another tiny movement.

Her Dad must see it too, though, because his voice loses the sharp edge.

“It’s just the heat and the humidity, sweetheart,” he says, picking Phil up out of the pram and rocking him gently. “It gets to everyone. Shh, shh, little man, it’s okay.”

Matt opens his mouth to ask Brian what humidity is, but then Phil lets out a scream that makes both Matt and Jessica flinch, so Matt decides maybe later.

The park is nice. They alternate between the monkey bars, where Matt can swing across two bars, and Jessica, who’s a little taller than him, can swing across three. He’s working on catching up to her, though. Whenever they get too hot, they run back to the big tree, where Brian and Phil are camped out, with two water bottles, some snacks, one of Jessica’s animal books, and the patience to answer all of Matt’s questions.

Eventually, Matt remembers the first question he’d wanted to ask.

“What’s humidity?” he asks.

Brian shrugs. “The weather, when it gets like this. When it’s all hot, and damp, and the air feels…” he trails off, the way grown-ups do when they’re looking for the right word. Matt catches himself doing it more and more, and he doesn’t know if that’s because he’ll be six in a few months and not five, or if it’s because he’s reading more.

“Heavy?” he offers anyway.

Brian nods, sending him a smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Does humid always happen in summer?” Jessica asks.

Brian hums. “It doesn’t _have_ to, I don’t think. But yeah, it usually does. Summers can be dry, or they can be damp and humid. Sometimes, they’re both.”

“Why can’t they just be one or the other?” Matt asks.

Brian shrugs. “Dunno, kid.”

Matt likes that about Brian. There’s never any sigh, like there is, if Mr Reagan is taking Sunday school that week. Just a simple statement. _I don’t know, and you get to know that I don’t know._

Jessica’s eyebrows are coming closer and closer together, until she’s frowning.

“If the air is heavy, is that when you can cut it? Like a knife?” she asks.

Matt blinks. She must have been reading over his shoulder. She did that, sometimes, when Matt was going through the really long books, and there were too many words she didn’t know for all of them.

It takes Brian a solid fifteen seconds to stop coughing at that, and the corners of his mouth keep twitching into the beginnings of a smile. Matt knows how long it took, because Jessica got grumpy, and started counting aloud, flopping back onto the grass and counting, “ _One, two,_ ” in a very sharp-edged voice.

Her Dad just keeps coughing, though.

* * *

 Their apartments aren’t far from each other at all, so Matt ends up seeing Jessica almost every day. Nearly every morning, actually, Matt ends up at the Jones’ apartment, where Alyssa and Jessica are usually on the floor, building more LEGOs.

Their proudest moment is after Alyssa tells them about the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and Matt convinces Jessica to give building it a shot.

The structure holds steady for all of three seconds, and Jessica huffs, blowing her breath out in one big _whoosh,_ before she reaches for the blocks again.

“Sweetheart, if it fell the first time, it probably will again,” Alyssa says, gently.

Jessica shakes her head. “Window,” she says, instead, and Matt doesn’t know what she means until he sees her put two base LEGOs down nine squares apart, and slowly start stacking more LEGOs on top of each.

Getting them to meet in the middle is tricky, but after two more tries, Matt and Jessica manage it.

Alyssa laughs, a wide, happy smile on her face. The camera Jessica always wants to play with and is strictly forbidden from doing so is snatched off the counter.

Two days later, there’s a photo in an old, battered blue frame on the kitchen counter. Matt and Jessica, with smiles are proud and wide, next to their first LEGO arch.

“Matt Murdock, architect,” Alyssa tells Jack when he comes to pick Matt up from that day, showing him the photo, and Jack grins at Matt through a bloodied mouth. Lopez must have hit hard today.

“Sounds good, kiddo,” he tells him, and Matt sighs, ducking his head to hide his smile.

He's pretty proud of that arch, honestly. 

* * *

 

That summer, Jessica sees Jack Murdock fight for the first time. Her Mom and Dad are in the kitchen, and the good thing about summer is that if bedtime slips past eight till eight thirty or nine, Mom and Dad roll their eyes, but usually let her snuggle up on the couch between them until she blinks, and then wakes up in her bed in the morning.

“Alyssa, are you sure?” Dad’s voice is worried, and Jessica can almost hear her Mom rolling her eyes from the kitchen. She slips out of bed and into hall, her nightie swishing around her knees.

“Yes, I’m sure. Jessie, I put you to bed, little miss.”

“What’s Mom sure about?” she asks, because questions are her Mom’s weak point.

But Mom dodges this one. “Whether we’re watching a match tonight on TV. And yes, of course we are. This is what friends do for each other. I distinctly remember you pounding that into my head when I was a sophomore.”

Her Dad grumbles, but he drops a kiss on Mom’s temple. And then he ruffles Jessica’s hair. “C’mon, kiddo. Bedtime.”

Mom tilts her head back, her eyes going to the ceiling or the countertop, like when she’s thinking _really hard_ about something, and Jessica waits.

“Actually, she should watch too.”

“Alyssa–”

“Her friend is Jack’s son. She knows already, she’s seen the bruises and the black eyes. She may as well.”

“There’s a difference between knowing and _seeing._ ”

This starts off another ‘discussion’, which is Mom’s word for it, and an argument, which is Dad’s word for it. Jessica’s not really sure why they need two words for the same talk, but then that’s grown-ups. They’re weird.

Eventually, they sit her on the couch.

“Jessie, has Jack ever told you what his work is?” Mom asks her.

Jessica shakes her head. She likes Jack, but he doesn’t talk a lot.

“Matt said he was a – box? Boxman?”

“Boxer,” Mom says. “Do you know what that means?”

Jessica shakes her head.

“Boxing is a kind of fighting,” her Dad explains. “Jack fights ‘cos it’s his job.”

“Like Mom teaching math,” Jessica says, just to make sure she’s got it right.

Dad nods.

Jessica shakes her head, looking at her Mom. “Why don’t _you_ fight people for a job?”

“I’m no good at it, sweetheart,” her Mom says. “If you want to watch, you can. If you have any questions, you can ask. And if you find it too scary, tell us, and we stop. Right then. Okay, Jessie?”

Jessica’s never nodded so fast at anything in her life.

The fight is _amazing._  She’d always known Matt’s Dad was tough, but the blows are something else. Their movements are fast, so fast that sometimes Jack or the other guy blurs, and there’s nothing but the sound of heavy gloves slamming against flesh, the annoying voices who say what’s going on, and the roar of the crowd.

She’s not even sure how it happens, and Brian’s hissing something through his teeth, but Jack has the other guy trapped in the corner, tagging him with a blur of punches.

He goes down, and Jessica feels something stirring in her chest.

“He’s gonna have a hell of a black eye again,” Alyssa says. The tone in her voice is like when she teases Dad about the grease under his nails, or when she reminds Jessica that it’s time to wash her hair.

Before she goes to bed that night, she clenches her hands into a fist and jabs out, sharp and quick. 

* * *

 

The next morning, she sneaks into the front yard outside. It’s early enough that her Mom and Dad are still asleep, and she ties her hair into a ponytail. It’s loose, not like the ones Mom does for her, but it’ll do.

She closes her eyes, tries to remember what the moves looked like last night, and takes a swing.

There’s a snort from beside her. Kieran, who lives down the hall.

“What are you _doing?"_

She glares at him. “Fighting.”

He smirks. “Girls don’t fight.”

“Do, too,” Jessica snaps, something hot snarling in her chest.

“Do _not."_

He walks away, and Jessica wants to go after him, like Jack went after the other guy in the ring the night before.

She takes another swing at thin air instead.

When her heart has started to pound and her arms are feeling heavy from swinging, Matt is there in the yard with her. He looks at her, his mouth twisting.

“You need to keep your hands up,” he says. “And that’s not how you make a fist.”

Jessica looks down at her hands, and frowns. They’re clenched. What’s wrong with them?

Matt walks over and taps her hand. Slowly, she uncurls it, and Matt clenches his own fist.

“You gotta keep your thumb on the outside,” he says, and it feels like she’s been given a present. 

* * *

 

Halfway through the summer, Alyssa tells Matt and Jessica to hold hands, and takes them and Phil onto the bus. They nearly leave Hell’s Kitchen entirely, with Alyssa pointing out the streets to them as she goes, listing the names of each intersection.

“Why are there so many numbers?” Matt can’t help but grumble. Numbers aren’t bad, but they’re not _interesting,_  like words are. They don’t catch on his mind and display a thousand different shades, each a little different, each capture something slightly different. It’s just open and shut.

Alyssa smiles, and ruffles Matt’s hair and promises that if he still wants to know after they swim, she’ll tell him then.

“Why after?” Matt asks her.

Alyssa shrugs. “I get motion sick if I read on the bus.”

“What’s motion sick?” Jessica asks, and Matt jumps in before Alyssa can do more than open her mouth.

He’s not sure why that makes Alyssa smile. Whatever. Grown-ups are weird. 

The water is cool and soothing, and floating feels strange, but Matt likes it. He likes the feel of the water rippling through his fingers; the way the light bounces off of the water. He likes the way the water cushions the sound, and the way there’s nothing but blueness when he takes a deep breath and plunges his head under the water and opens his eyes in the goggles. Kicking in the water feels weird, but Alyssa laughs, balancing Phil against her shoulder from where she stands in the deep end, and tells him that he’ll get used to it.

It takes longer for Jessica to enter the water, and when she does, she turns to Matt and tells him, “I wasn’t _scared."_

Before Matt can say anything, Alyssa is there, smoothing back Jessica’s wet hair and kissing the top of her head.

“Of course you weren’t, sweetheart,” she says, offering her free hand. “Come on. This is how you leave the wall.”

 

They walk to Central Park afterwards, and flop down on the grass in the sun. Phil doesn’t cry even one time on the walk there, that’s how short a walk it is.

Matt looks out, with some awe. He’s never seen so much green space before. It doesn’t seem to have an ending at all.

“Tell me about the numbers?” Jessica asks her Mom, nestling her head onto her Mom’s lap. Alyssa is leaning back on her palms, legs stretched out in front of her. Matt feels a surge of something hot and painful in his chest at the sight of the touch, and he scoots closer to Jessica.

He doesn’t expect for her to shift to Alyssa’s other leg, or for Alyssa to smile at him and pat her now free leg.

Tentatively, like the moment will break if he moves too slowly, Matt sets his head down on Alyssa’s right leg, and the feeling in his chest eases a bit.

“It’s a grid system,” Alyssa says. She yanks a notebook out of her tote bag. It’s an enormous thing, with a change of clothes for both of them, and Matt’s not sure why he’s still surprised that Alyssa always has a pen and a notebook. She’s a teacher, they’re supposed to have those things. “Manhattan is built on a grid,” she says. Her hand flashes across the page as she sketches it out. “The avenues run from north to south, and streets are east to west. The numbers of the streets go higher the further north you go, and the numbers on the avenues go higher the further west you go, until you reach us.”

“In Hell’s Kitchen,” Matt says, frowning.

“Exactly,” Alyssa smiles.

Matt tilts his head a little. “You and Jessica’s Dad aren’t from there, are you?”

Alyssa’s smile widens. “How do you know?” she counters.

She asks him and Jessica that question a lot. Jessica finds it more frustrating than Matt. Jessica knows things, but she doesn’t always know why she knows things. Matt thinks she’s a bit like his Dad that way.

“The way you talk. It’s different from Dad.”

Alyssa nods. “We moved from Connecticut,” she says. “When I got a job at Barnard. The college I teach at.”

Matt tilts his head to the side, trying to imagine leaving New York. “You weren’t scared?”

Alyssa’s smile is rueful. “Always. Can’t let that control what you do, though.” She nudges Jessica. “Like you, with the water today.”

Jessica pouts. “I wasn’t _scared."_

Alyssa rolls her eyes. “Of course you weren’t,” she says, and one hand cards through each child’s hair. 

* * *

 

The ninth time Matty bangs into the same damn chair because he’s running out of his room too fast, and bruises his entire shinbone, Jack decides that something’s gotta give.

“Sports,” his Mom suggests, when he takes Matty around there that afternoon, that knowing look in her eye she gets. Usually when remembering how she’d survived his childhood. “He’s a boy, Jack. He needs to move.”

Jack sighs. “I’m not gonna teach him how to fight. He’s not gonna be like me.”

“He’s from Hell’s Kitchen, and he’s a Murdock. He’s gonna have some of the devil in him,” his mother says, a twist to her mouth, and there’s something that wrenches in Jack’s heart when he sees his smile in his mother’s face. Her tone is blunt and pragmatic. “But there are sports other than boxing.”

Jack sighs, again, at that, because sports other than boxing means learning how to play, and lessons, and lessons cost money, and that means more stress and frantically calculating–

“Breathe,” his mother says, tapping him on the sternum, and he draws in a deep breath, flexing his fingers.

She nods, satisfied.

“Sarah Callahan goes to Saint Agnes,” she says. “She runs a ballet class. I’ll have a word with her.”

Jack tilts his head. “Ballet?”

He can’t keep the doubtful note out of his voice.

“Balance, flexibility, strength,” Mom says, smirking. “And the ability to hold still for five damn seconds. It fits your bill.”

Jack gives a nod, because he really can’t argue with that. Matty’s gonna have to learn to hold still without someone shoving a book into his hand.

It takes both of them working together to convince Matty to give it a shot, but the next day, Jack’s Mom surprises them both with a pair of ballet shoes.

“Try it. I think you’ll like it,” she tells Matt, clapping him on the shoulder gently. “And if anyone tells you that boys can’t dance–”

“Then dance anyway,” Matt says, rolling his eyes. “I _know,_ Nana.”

 

After the first class, Jack asks Matty, “So, what d’you think?”

Matty just groans, burying his face in Jack’s hip. “ _Everything hurts,"_  he whines.

Jack has to bite down on a chuckle at that, a jagged laugh that wants to crawl up his throat, because shit, his kid hasn’t seen nothin’ yet on what the Kitchen can dish out, as far as pain’s concerned.

“Happens sometimes. Means you worked hard. Doesn’t mean you stop.”

Matt sighs. “Like when you hit the mat?”

Jack feels his mouth quirk into a smile that’s way too bitter. “Somethin’ like that,” he says, ruffling Matt’s hair. It’s soft and wonderful, like everything that Matty is, and Jack’s not sure how something so goddamn _beautiful_ as his son could have ever come into his life.

“O- _kay_ ,” Matty says, in that new voice he’s learning, the ‘reluctant-grown-up’ voice. Smartass. “I guess I’ll go back.”

Jack snorts. “Glad to hear it.” But he lets his hand linger on Matt’s shoulder, because there’s no way his son won’t know how much Jack loves him.

(It scares him, a little. Has, since the day they put him in his arms at the hospital, and Matty had promptly gotten his heart in a death-grip. And now Matty is sarcastic and gentle and he’s already heard from Alyssa about how he always explains the words to Jessica when she doesn’t know ‘em, and he’s miles smarter than Jack’s ever gonna be, he could do something other than make a living with his fists.

_"He’s a Murdock, and he lives in Hell’s Kitchen.”)_

He pushes his mother’s words out of his mind.

“C’mon, kiddo, time to go home,” he tells him.

* * *

 Two weeks later, Matt finds himself slipping into first position. It’s hard, but he’s trying to get better at it.

Jessica watches, wide-eyed. “How are you _doing that_?” she asks him, tone high, her finger stabbing at his feet just so he knows what she’s talking about.

Matt shrugs. “It’s ballet. Dad wants me to learn how. Says I’ll run into things less often.”

“You learned how to do _that_ with your feet at ballet?” Jessica asks.

Matt nods.

Jessica grabs his hand, and drags him until they come to the door of her parents' room. She’s been in there more often, lately, as the weeks tick on through July. She says the lesson plans need making.

“Mom! Can I do ballet?” Jessica asks, smiling up at Alyssa. She looks a bit tired, with her hair coming loose from her braid, like Jessica’s does at the end of the day.

Alyssa blinks. "Jessica, I really need you and Matt to play in the living room on your own for at least another half hour. I need to plan lessons right now."

"But  _Mom_!" Jessica protests, winding up for her argument.

 

A week after _that_ , Matt is helping Jessica with third position, and Brian takes the opportunity to snap a stealthy photo.

A copy of it finds its way into Jack’s wallet, and another sits on Alyssa’s desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my summer intensive is driving me nuts, how's your week going?


	3. Foggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt imprints on the new boy in their class.  
> Jessica has a lot to learn when it comes to sharing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://martial-quill.tumblr.com/post/168620593894/jessica-in-chapter-3-of-ps-35-hells-kitchen
> 
> That just about sums it up, honestly. 
> 
> Also, baby Matt swears. It's adorable.
> 
> I'm not 100% sure about this one. I might need to come back and give it a little more TLC later. But honestly, I'm just trying to keep on going with this fic.

 She has to find a new hiding spot after this.

She is crouched behind the side of the cafeteria, out of the wind, scarf tucked around her ears. Matt’s juice pouch sits in her lunch box. It sits there, untouched.

“Just _leave me alone_!” Jessica snaps, blinking furiously. Matt’s face is blurry. “Go and read that stupid book with your stupid new friend, we don’t have to be friends anymore if you don’t want to, just _go away_!”

Matt’s face is pale, and when he turns on his heel, Jessica buries her face in her knees. 

* * *

 

It starts like this.

There is a boy he doesn’t know sitting in Matt’s chair, at Matt’s desk.

“You got everything?” Alyssa checks, straightening the edge of Jessica’s shirt.

Jessica sighs. “ _Yes,_ Mom.”

“Don’t ‘Yes, Mom’ me, baby,” Alyssa says, flicking one eyebrow up. “Pencil case, lunch box, your books?”

“Yes, Mom,” Jessica says. Her voice sounds a little different now, and Alyssa nods, apparently satisfied even though Jessica literally just said the exact same thing she’d just scolded her for.

Matt’s still a little busy, staring at the classroom.

Not many of the kids are there, yet. Lisa’s there, and so is David M., and a few others, but it’s pretty quiet. The boy in Matt’s chair is blond, and has blue eyes that are firmly fixed on _Matilda_.

“Who’s he?” Matt asks, pointing at the boy.

Jessica shrugs. “I dunno. He’s new?”

Matt huffs, and shifts on his feet. “So where do we sit?”

Jessica rolls her eyes and grabs his hand, tugging him over to the boy. Matt swallows, but he walks with her.

“Hi,” the boy says, not taking his eye off the page.

Jessica blinks. “Hi. You’re in Matt’s chair.”

The boy’s head tilts to the side. “Who’s Matt?”

Matt says, “I’m Matt” at the same time Jessica jerks her thumb to him and says, “He’s Matt.”

“Oh! I’m Foggy,” the boy says, grinning at them, sliding out of the seat. “Hi!”

Matt settles his bag beside the chair, and nods at him. “Hi.”

“ _Foggy_?” Jessica asks. “Your name is _Foggy_?”

Matt shakes his head at her, but Foggy just smiles. “Yeah. Well, Franklin is my name. But call me Foggy.”

Jessica shakes her head, braid swinging with the motion. “ _Why_?”

“It just...is,” Foggy says, shrugging. “What’s your name?”

“Jess,” she says, sliding into the chair on the other side of Matt’s. “I’m Jess, and I’m six.”

“You’re five,” Matt corrects her, and she sticks her tongue out at him. “I’m six.”

“I’m six in a _week_.”

“Which means you’re five,” Matt argues.

“ _Ma-att.”_

“Jessi _ca,”_ Matt retorts.

“ _Matt.”_

Foggy is looking between them, and tentatively offers, “I’m five in a month.”

Jessica’s eyebrows rise up. “You’re four?”

Foggy nods. “I started in kindergarten. Then they moved me up.” He looks at the surface of the table. “I miss my friends, though.”

Matt feels a lump in his throat, at the look on Foggy’s face, and blurts out, “You can sit with us. When class starts.”

Foggy looks a little surprised, and then a smile spreads across his face. “Thank you.”

“Is it good?” Matt asks him. “ _Matilda_ , I mean? I haven’t read it.”

Foggy grins, bright and excited. “Yeah, it’s really good! It’s all about this girl who can move things with her _mind_!”

“Really?” Jessica asks. “What’s her name?”

“ _Matilda_ ,” Foggy says, as though it should have been obvious. Jessica’s eyes narrow, and she scoffs.

“Dumb name.”

“What does she do? With her powers?” Matt asks, leaning in a little closer to try and read over Foggy’s shoulder.

“So there’s this evil principal,” Foggy begins.

“What’s a principal?”

“Person in charge of the school,” Matt supplies. “We’ve got one. Keep going, Foggy.”

“She’s super super evil and super mean to all the kids,” Foggy explains, setting the book down, cover up. Matt frowns, but lets it slide. That’s a terrible way to treat books. “And Matilda defeats her so that the kids never, ever have to worry about the Chokey again.”

“The Chokey?” Matt asks, hearing the same words coming from Jessica half a beat later.

“Yeah, it’s like this thing, this cupboard with, like, broken glass, and nails and spikes and you can’t move too far to the left without getting spiked by the nails, or too far to the right, then you’ll get spiked!” Foggy says, beaming.

“ _Whoa,_ shit,” Matt says, freezing half a second after he said it.

Jessica smirks at him, holding out a hand. 

Matt sighs, and digs into his backpack for his lunchbox, handing over his apple.

Jessica grins at him, and sets it on the desk in front of her. “Spikes _and_ broken glass?” she asks Foggy.

Foggy nods.

“Nice,” Jessica says. “Dragons?”

Foggy shakes his head, looking almost embarrassed. “Sorry. No dragons.

“ _Awww._ ”

* * *

 “Alright, class, we’re going to be going through that spelling list now. Take out your books, go to this week’s page, on page thirty-three. Get into pairs with the person sitting next to you,” Mrs Grech says, from the front of the class.

Jessica glances to her left, but Matt is already turning to Foggy and swapping books with him.

Something hot and awful curls through the pit of her stomach, before she turns to Lisa.

Lisa’s smile is friendly, but it’s not _Matt_ ’s, and Jessica sighs as they swap books.

Something Foggy says makes Matt laugh, and the feeling curls through her gut again. 

* * *

 

They tug on gloves and scarves when it’s time for recess, and Jessica eyes the monkey bars thoughtfully. Lisa and David M. are there, swinging across the bars in bare hands.

She finishes the last of her juice pouch, and turns to Matt.

“C’mon, let’s go,” she says, pointing at the monkey bars.

“Actually, Foggy and I were gonna start _Matilda_ ,” Matt says, setting his pouch down. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Evil principal, remember?”

She sighs and flops down beside them, leaning her head on Matt’s shoulder. “ _Fi-ine_ ,” she says.

Matt smirks at her, and she grins back, before Foggy flips the book open to the first page and starts to read.

“No, no, reading is _Matt’s_ job,” Jessica says, tugging the book out of Foggy’s hands.

“Foggy can read if he wants too,” Matt says, frowning at her, his mouth twisting a little, like it gets when he’s unhappy, but he’s not sure if he should say anything.

“No, I don’t mind if you read,” Foggy says, smiling at Matt, too.

“You have the best reading voice,” Jessica adds. _Three, two..._

Matt goes a little pink, but he smiles and flips the book open again.

“ _To the reader of books_ ,” he begins.

Jessica listens, frowning as the list of words she doesn’t recognise piles up, and up. Foggy is smiling, chuckling at parts, and Matt is grinning, too.

The bell for class rings before they even get past the second page, and Foggy huffs.

“Aww, man.”

“Don’t worry,” Matt says, grinning at Foggy as he slips his gloves back on. “There’s still lunch.”

_What?_

It’s like the world slows a little, as Matt smiles at Foggy again, bright and warm, the smile he’s always given _her_ , and Jessica feels that same awful feeling from before curl into her throat, into her stomach.

“I’m not reading at lunch as well as at recess,” Jessica says.

“But it’s such a good book!” Foggy protests, his eyes wide, like he doesn’t understand why she wouldn’t want to, how anyone could possibly not like _Matilda_ the way he and Matt do, and Jessica feels like screaming.

“It’s _stupid_ ,” she says harshly, and once she starts talking, it’s like she can’t stop. “It’s stupid, and you’re stupid, and the words are too long, and I’m _not_ reading it with you! Why did you have to move into our class anyway?”

Foggy’s eyes go even wider, and Matt steps up, his eyes angry. “Why are you being so mean to Foggy about it?” he snaps, his breath coming out as a puff of steam in the air. “It’s not his fault you need the words explained!”

Jessica flinches, steps back, and there’s something stinging at her eyes. She clenches her hands into gloved fists.

“Fine!” she snaps at Matt. “Just leave me alone and you can read! You can read, and I’ll play on the monkey bars, and you don’t have to explain the words if you don’t want to!”

She starts running to girls’ toilets, on the other side of the playground, the frigid air harsh and jagged in her throat, like she’s breathing in a knife.

“Jess!”

“ _Leave me alone!”_ she tosses over her shoulder.

* * *

 When she walks back into the classroom ten minutes later, she sits next to Lisa.

Foggy’s eyes are worried, and sad, and they duck away when her eyes meets them by accident.

Matt’s are still angry. _You broke it_ , they say. _You broke this._

She turns her face back to the addition table in front of her, and swallows down the heavy feeling in her throat and in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

 Jessica disappears out the door at lunch, and that is _so_ not okay, Matt thinks, something bubbling in his stomach. His skin feels hot, and he wonders if this is how his Dad feels in the ring, and the thought makes him feel sick, because this is _Jessica,_ not some of the guys his Dad boxes in the ring.

He finds her behind the south wall of the cafeteria, out of the wind. She’s always been smart when it comes to picking her hiding spots.

“What the hell was that?” he asks her, hands on his hips.

Jessica doesn’t look him in the eye. “What was what?”

“You know what. Why’d you go and act like Robbie F. at Foggy?” Matt asks her.

She huffs. “Maybe I just don’t like him.”

Well, _that’s_ not true. How could anyone not like Foggy? Matt’s not sure he’s ever met a nicer person. “No. You were fine with him in class.”

“Go away.”

“No!”

“Go _away_!”

“ _No!”_

“ _Leave me alone!”_ Jessica shouts. She’s blinking very hard, and her lower lip is trembling, and no, _no_ , she can’t be about to cry, Jessica doesn’t cry, not even when she’s gotten a huge scrape on her knee, she doesn’t cry. “Go and read that stupid book with your stupid new friend, we don’t have to be friends anymore if you don’t want to, just _go away_!”

Matt swallows, and walks away from Jessica’s hiding place.

Somehow, none of the words in _Matilda_ feel like they can explain the heavy feeling in his gut. 

* * *

 

“You wanna tell me why you’ve got a face like Pine in the ring?” Dad asks, as they cross the street.

Matt huffs, leaning a little into the touch of Dad’s hand on his shoulder, and shakes his head. “‘S nothing,” he mumbles. Dad has a fight tonight. He can’t be worrying about something as, as, as

 _– stupid_ , Jessica’s voice says in his mind –

 _trivial_ as this.

It’s nothing.

“Nothin’ don’t have you glaring daggers at the world, kid.” Dad’s hand is light as it squeezes. “C’mon, Matty. What happened?”

Matt huffs again.

“This have anythin’ to do with the Ice Age goin’ on with you and Jess?”

“No,” Matt snaps, his heart twisting painfully in his chest, when he thinks of the fact that they’d left school without talking to each other.

“So, yeah, it does,” Dad says. “C’mon, kid. Can’t help you fix it if you don’t tell me.”

Matt gives in.

“Just. Foggy was in class today, and Jess and I sat with him, and he was reading _Matilda_ , so we read it together at recess, but then Jess was acting weird, then she was mean to Foggy, and we argued, and she said that I should just be friends with Foggy, and then she sat with Lisa instead for the rest of the day, and I think she hates me,” Matt says.

Dad’s rubbing at his forehead. “Come again?”

Matt huffs.

“Gettin’ a little tired of hearing that sound from you, kiddo. You and Jessica had a fight about Foggy. Who’s Foggy, again?”

“Foggy. He’s new, he was in kindergarten but now he’s in our class. And he was sitting in my chair this morning, but he’s funny, and he likes books too.”

Dad sighs. “Right. So you were readin’ the book, and Jessica started actin’ weird?”

“Yeah.”

Dad’s hand is circling across the back of Matt’s shoulders, as they walk into the apartment building.

“I didn’t think I’d have to give this talk this soon,” Dad says. “A’ight. You know how – no, no you don’t. Uh. Gimme a sec, kiddo,” he says, as he fishes in his pocket for the keys. “Sometimes, people get scared when they think they’re gonna lose somethin’ they like. Somethin’ that matters.”

“Like you when you can’t find the keys?”

“...kinda, I guess. See, I wasn’t there. But Jessica – you matter to her, Matty. How many days this summer were you two together?”

“...all of them? Except Sundays, I guess.”

“‘Zackly. So, this new kid shows up, and he likes books. You know how you explain the words to Jess?”

“...what does _that_ have to do with this?”

“She knows you’re better at words than she is. ‘S not a bad thing, kiddo, don’t gimme that face,” Dad says, ruffling Matt’s hair, as he opens the door, “and it’s good that you explain the words to her. But this new kid shows up, and I’m gonna guess he don’t need you to explain the words to you, right?”

Matt shakes his head, as they walk in. “Foggy’s smart. Smarter than me, even, probably.”

“If the kid’s smarter than you, then I’m scared,” Dad says, his tone going funny. “So, Jess sees that the kid’s smart, and that you’ve got a new friend. And she’s scared that you’ll care more about the new friend than you do ‘bout her, like this friend more than you do her. ‘s not a fun feeling to have. Makes people act stupid.”

Matt freezes, as Jessica’s eyes flash into focus in his mind again, very, very bright, the way her mouth had trembled.

He wavers.

“She was _mean_ to Foggy,” he argues. “And she hates me now.”

Dad’s shake of his head is firm. “She definitely does not hate you, kid. She’s scared. And what she’s feelin’ don’t make what she did okay. But you gotta know, so that you can fix things with her.” He pauses. “You wanna fix things with her, right?”

Matt shrugs, unsure if words will come past the lump in his throat.

“You’ve got two options. Help fix things with Jessica, or stop being friends. You wanna stop?”

Matt has to grip the chair, because breathing got a little difficult there. “Wha– _no_.”

Because he’s still angry about the way Jessica had treated Foggy, but the thought of not being friends with her anymore makes his heart twist, makes his throat burn a little.

“Okay. Then tomorrow, you need to talk to Jessica,” Dad says, with a nod. 

* * *

 

Jessica is there early tomorrow. Matt already sees her, her head bent towards Foggy’s.

_They’re talking now?_

They’re both leaning over Foggy’s desk, dictionary open in front of them, with a paper list in Jessica’s hand. He recognises the paper as being from Alyssa’s pocket notebook.

The second Matt steps into the classroom, Jessica’s head snaps up, and she crosses the room to him. She grabs him by the arm, tugging him into the corner. Foggy watches them, a small smile on his face.

“ _Ow_ , Jess, let go–”

She does, her eyes wide and worried, and her mouth is already opening.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out. “I was a _jerk_ , and I’m sorry.”

“Good,” Matt says, wincing the second after the words have left his mouth. “Look, I don’t want to be friends with just you or just Foggy. I want to be friends with _both_ of you,” he says.

Jessica is quiet, at that, and Matt swallows, because he’s not sure what he’ll do if she asks him to choose.

“ _Matilda_ and the dictionary at lunch,” Jessica says. “Monkey bars at recess.”

Matt smiles at her. “You said sorry to Foggy?”

She nods. “I got him a juice pouch, too.”

“So we’re friends?”

Jessica makes the noise that means she’s annoyed – a little whine in the back of her throat – before she hugs him.

Matt hugs her back, a lump in his throat, before they walk back over to the desk and start going through the words. 

* * *

 

At recess, Jessica hands Matt and Foggy a juice pouch each.

Foggy stares at it, smiling in delight. “That’s my favourite flavour!”

Jessica ducks her head, but Matt can see her smile, soft and warm.

“Mine, too,” she says, very quietly.

Matt settles in beside her to slurp the juice pouch down.

“C’mon, you two,” he tells them. “We’ve gotta get to the monkey bars.”

Their smiles, Matt thinks, are the best things in the world.


	4. Christmas, 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. Christmas, 1995 This chapter serves absolutely no purpose. It is Christmassy fluff and drama, because I am shameless.

“Matty. Matty, c’mon. Time to wake up, kid.”

Dad’s voice. Matt opens his eyes, and groans.

“Ugh.”

Dad nods, sitting on the end of his bed, offering him a hand. Matt grabs it, and Dad hauls him to a sitting position.

“Yup. C’mon, time to get up. It’s Christmas Eve.”

It takes Matt a minute to remember, and when he does, the realisation is like a puzzle piece sliding into place. He’s surprised there isn’t an audible click, like on a cartoon.

“Oh,” Matt says, and he flings back the covers. Good, he’s not in pyjamas. Dad must have realised that he’d fall asleep.

He slides out of bed, yelping a little as his feet hit the floor, and hops to the dresser, hoping that one foot on the floor will be preferable to both of them. It’s not, but he’s close enough to reach in and grab socks and his good sweater. It’s dark maroon, with red stitches at the hems. Dad already has his coat and his scarf out on the bed, and Matt manages to tie the laces in record time.

The air when they get outside the apartment is freezing cold, and Matt breathes it in gleefully. The snow is fresh on the ground, and crunching under their feet.

“We’re meeting Nana at church, right?” Matt says, as Dad takes his hand while they cross the street.

“Mmhm,” Dad says, running one hand through his hair. “Same drill as last year. Although we’re doin’ somethin’ a little different tomorrow.”

Matt twists around to look at Dad’s face, and Dad frowns, tilting his face back to the street.

“You gotta watch where you’re goin’, Matty,” he says, but his voice is soft, not mad. “Yeah, you heard me. Alyssa and Brian want us to come over for lunch in the morning.”

“ _Really_?” Matt can’t keep his voice neutral, he can’t.

“Not that you cared either way, or anythin’,” Dad teases him, and Matt sticks his tongue out at him. “Yeah, kiddo. Really. Nine o’clock. Which gives us about enough time to catch forty winks after Mass.”

Matt is the first to see Nana, standing outside Saint Agnes. She’s folded her mittens under her arms to keep them warmest, and she beams when she sees them.

“My boys,” she says, opening her arms, and Matt bounds in, wrapping his arms around her hips. Nana smells like cinnamon, and her sharp flowery perfume, and the wool of her slacks is scratchy against Matt’s cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Ma,” Dad says, kissing Nana on the cheek. She wraps her arms around him, too, drawing him into a hug, and then nods. “Merry Christmas, Jack. Good grief, Matt, you’ve grown,” she says, in that bright voice Matt knows is reserved just for him.

“'bout an inch, I think,” Dad agrees. “Let’s go inside, though, ‘s freezin’ out here.”

“Can’t disagree with you there,” Nana agrees, and Matt nestles his head into Dad’s hip.

He likes Saint Agnes. Loves the smell of the wood polish, the way sunlight filters through the windows for Sunday mass. The Father has a nice voice, too, even if Matt doesn’t understand all of what he says yet.

The carols are familiar, and Matt stumbles a little during _‘O Come All Ye Faithful_.’ Nana's hand squeezes his, and she lowers the programme in her hand so he can read it a little better.

Dad slips out, halfway through _Silent Night_ , his eyes very bright, and Matt moves to follow him. Nana's hand drops to his shoulder, and she shakes her head.

“Give him a minute, Matt,” she whispers. Mrs O’Connor turns around and glares at them, and Nana glares back, even as Matt rocks back onto his heels, continuing to sing ‘shepherds quake at the sight.’

 _Quake_. It sounds interesting. Matt’s pretty sure that one’s new as well.

Dad slips back in, just in time for the Father to get up and start talking. Nana reaches over and squeezes Dad’s hand, and he squeezes back.

Matt reaches out for Dad’s other hand, and Dad’s smile is small, as Matt plays with his fingers, but it’s there.

Mass is followed by hot chocolate at their apartment. Matt drinks his too fast, and burns his tongue, yelping at the feel. It’s like there’s a patch of taste buds missing from his tongue.

“You’ll be fine,” Dad tells him when Matt tells him so, but he blows on Matt’s hot chocolate to cool it down anyway.

Presents are never a big thing at their place. Matt knows that. He’s okay with it, too. But there is  _one_ , and more importantly, it's a  _book._

He looks down at the book in his hands. _The Hobbit_ , it says, in white lettering over the green cover. There’s a bright orange dragon on the cover, curled up on a hoard of gold and jewels. Matt glances up at his Nana, who is watching him with a tilt to her smile.

“Is it good?” he asks Nana.

She smiles. “There’s a dragon. And magic. And spiders.”

Matt smiles back. “That’s not an answer.”

“Manners, Matty,” Dad says, sipping at his own hot chocolate, leaning against the kitchen counter. Matt ducks his head, and slides over to Nana, walking over to kiss her cheek.

“Thanks, Nana.” She smiles and ruffles his hair.

“You’re welcome, Matt,” she says.

Dad glances at the clock, and sighs. “Finish your hot chocolate, kiddo. We’re due at the Jones’ place at ten.”

Matt sighs dramatically, but he slides off the chair and finishes the hot chocolate. He still can’t feel the tip of his tongue, but the hot chocolate is sweet, and the melted marshmallows are creamy.

* * *

The snow is falling, she’s not sure she’s packed enough snacks and toys for Jessica in the bag, Jessica has not stopped talking about going to see her grandfather and grandmother all day, which is both sweet and also augmenting her mounting anxiety because _dear God, Christmas with her parents_ , she’s operating on about three hours of sleep because Phil was crying, and she’s still not sure she glazed the ham right.

Which is of course why the doorbell rings.

She glances at her watch. Yep, Jack’s on time. He’s scrupulous about it. It’s one of the puzzle pieces that is Jack Murdock: stitches and blows and connections that she’s still not entirely sure are legal.

Then again, it’s Hell’s Kitchen. 'Legal' is trickier here than in other parts of the country.

Brian rushes for the door, his smile lighting up his voice. “Jack, Matt, c’mon in! We’re just getting everything ready now. Jess, Matt’s here!”

Matt hurries through the apartment into Jessica’s room, where Alyssa has stationed her with strict instructions to not let her brother eat the LEGO.

“Jess! Phil!” comes Matt’s voice as he closes the door, and Alyssa lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” she mumbles, pacing in the kitchen.

“Anythin’ we can do?” Jack asks her.

“Sit down, have a drink, ignore my impending meltdown?” she offers tightly. Jack’s eyebrow flicks up and he looks between her and Brian. Brian is staring at the ceiling, forefinger and thumb of his left hand pinching the bridge of his nose. The light catches on his wedding band, and she shuts her eyes.

_God, Christmas dinner with my parents. What was I thinking?_

“In-laws,” Brian says succinctly. “Christmas dinner with the in-laws, to be specific.”

Jack flinches. “Oh, good,” he says.

Alyssa snorts. “Indeed.”

Jack sighs, and grabs the stool from beside the kitchen counter. “C’mon, let me hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Hear the story,” he says.

“There is no story,” Alyssa says, checking the platters again.

Has she cut enough shallots? Maybe she should cut more. Brian palms the knife off her when she goes to cut more shallots.

She does not whine.

(She might, however, if you got a critical mass of eggnog into her, admit to making a noise of displeasure in her throat that makes the corner of Brian’s mouth quirk and Jack glance at the ceiling.)

“We don’t have enough shallots,” Alyssa argues.

“We have plenty of shallots, and I don’t trust you with a knife right now,” Brian retorts, handing the knife to Jack, who – traitor that he is – hides it behind him and spreads his arms wide to block her access.

“What’s the story, Brian?”

“Her parents are blue bloods from Hartford who aren’t that cheerful about the fact their Harvard graduate daughter married a mechanic from Massachusetts,” Brian says.

Again, it’s succinct.

“It’s not really the ‘from Massachusetts’ thing that bugs them,” Alyssa says, and _why oh why_ did she feel the urge to clarify that?

“No, I kinda figured,” Jack says dryly. “Well, if you want advice, I am not the person to ask. Maggie’s Mom is convinced that I’m the Antichrist.”

Brian chuckles, offering Jack a beer. He takes it, flipping the cap off easily.

“Is it bad that my first instinct is to say ‘oh, thank Christ, I’m not the only one?’"

“Honestly can’t say that I care if it is,” Jack says, sipping from the drink. The swelling in his eye has finally gotten better, from the fight he’d had two weeks ago. “What did you do last year?”

“It’s, uh, the first time we’ve tried doing Christmas dinner since moving here,” Alyssa says, running a hand through her hair. “So, we haven’t really seen them for about...three years. They call on the kids’ birthdays, and this year, my Mom suggested – and–” her eyes are _burning_ , as her brain flicks through a catalogue of memories, the weight of which is almost crushing, _fuck_ , she’s twenty-nine years old, she’s a mother of two children, she teaches at one of the most prestigious colleges on the East Coast, she should be able to face the prospect of _fucking dinner with her parents_ –

Brian’s hands wrap around her shoulders, twist her into his chest, and she doesn’t know where the tears came from, but they are soaking, soaking into his chest, as he pulls her out of the kitchen and into the living room. She can hear Jack’s footfalls creeping down the hall, into the bedroom with the kids, to keep them occupied and entertained, to let her fall apart in her husband’s arms, and that makes her cry more, because that has never, ever happened at home.

Brian’s T-shirt is an AC/DC shirt that she got him when they started dating. It is soft from innumerable cycles through his battered washing machine, and he wears it so often that it barely smells like his laundry detergent. Instead, it smells like grease and engine oil, Axe and his aftershave, the most comforting smells she’s ever known, the ones that equate to _safety_ and _home_ , _steadfastness_ and _patience_. Soon, the shirt will be stained with her tears, for the thousandth time.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sways her on her feet, his arms tight around her waist, rocking back and forth, humming and carding one hand through her hair, until her breathing slows again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, for what must be the millionth time. It’s not the first time this has happened. There is something like a 0.00003% of it being the last.

“Wash that mouth out,” he says. He’s given up on trying to break her of her apologies. Now he just holds her through the storm.

The tears continue to stream, despite the sobs passing, even as she tilts his head down and kisses him, pouring it all out. _I trust you_ and _I’m scared_ and _I don’t know if this is a good idea_ and _what if this goes to hell?_ and _thank you_ and _don’t go, I need you_.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs against her mouth, backing her against the corner. She must have said that last thing out loud. She kisses his jaw, letting him speak more easily, because she needs to hear that. She needs it like she needs her breath. “No matter what happens tonight. Your old man doesn’t scare me.”

She huffs a breathless laugh against his neck, careful to avoid the band-aid there. He cut himself shaving again.

“It’s not the Dad who scares people.”

He chuckles, the sound reverberating in his chest. “Your Mom doesn’t scare me either, sweet. What's she gonna do, throw one of her pearl sets at me? She does that, we get someone to fence them. We can start saving for Jess’ college fund off the sale.”

That makes her laugh, much harder than the joke warrants, and Brian kisses the pulse point of her throat. Heat uncoils in her gut, and she tugs at the back of his neck, tugging him closer, and–

Brian freezes under her hands. “Smoke,” he says, with a tone that she normally associates with funerals. _“Smoke.”_

“What?” Alyssa says, twisting and oh, _shit,_  there _is_ smoke pouring out of the oven.

Frantically, she flings it open, dives for the gloves.

It turns out the funereal tone was the appropriate one, because the ham is a smoking, charred, culinary wreck.

Jack appears in the kitchen a minute later, coughing and eyeing the ham skeptically. “I’ve got frozen pizza at my place,” he says.

She can hear her father’s sigh, his question of Alyssa, _what are we going to_ do _with you?_  and see the pinched twists to her mother’s mouth. She shoves the thoughts away, focuses on the squeeze of Brian’s hands and the gentle understanding in Jack’s eyes. No pity, there. Just calm acceptance.

“Let’s go,” she says. They get Mrs Llamosa down the hall to air out the apartment once she’s done with Christmas at her place, grab the kids, presents and backpacks for the trip to Hartford, and start the walk to the Murdocks’ place.

“Coulda been worse,” Jack offers, as Alyssa tightens her grip on Jessica’s hand.

“ _Mom!”_ Jessica whines, and Alyssa loosens the grip.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” She looks at Jack. “How could it have been worse?”

His grin is wide. “I dunno. One time, my Ma was trying to pour brandy on the puddin’, but the dog got in the way, threw off her aim. The ham got set on fire.”

And Alyssa laughs until tears pour down her face, and the kids demand to know what’s so funny. Jack lets the demands continue for about five solid minutes, patient man that he is, before he tells them, and Matt’s grin could light up half of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Nana set the _ham_ on fire.”

“Not a word to her, ya hear me, Matty? She’ll kill me in my sleep.”

“Nah. While you’re awake,” Brian says, and the laughter spreads through their entire group – no, _family_ – like a ripple of water.

Alyssa drinks in the sight of them: Matt and Jessica, shepherding Phil in between them, in turn clinging tightly to Jack and Brian’s hands respectively. There’s snow in Matt’s hair and on Jessica’s hat, snow on everyone’s mittens, and Phil keeps trying to reach out and touch it, repeatedly trying to break free of Matt and Jessica’s shepherding. It gets to the point where Brian just sighs and scoops him up, settling him onto his hip. She squeezes his hand, and he smiles at her, full and steady and loving, and she can’t resist going onto her toes to kiss him, quick and chaste on the lips.

 _“Gross,”_ Matt says, in the tone used by a six-year old boy to declare that there are plenty of stars. Well, a six-year old boy who doesn’t live in New York City, anyway.

“Matty, I swear to God, if you keep saying that in ten years time, I’ll be delighted,” Jack says dryly.

Alyssa chuckles as Jessica says, “It’s not gross, you’re just dumb.”

“If you keep saying that in three years, I’ll become an English teacher,” Alyssa teases her daughter.

The way Jessica screws up her face and says, “I’m not gonna change my mind, Mom” is the funniest thing she’s seen all day.

* * *

When the annual ritual of going through the new book and the dictionary side-by-side is interrupted by a knock at the door, Jack has a list of a mile long of people who he does _not_ want to see, and maybe about two people he wouldn’t mind.

The first person on the list is his mother. And the second is…

_Bright blue eyes, reddish brown hair the same colour as Matty’s– he’s got her smile, too– goddammit, not important right now._

The guy standing on the other side of the door doesn’t even remotely register. He’s a bit on the chubby side, but with some definite muscle under there, blond, blue-eyed, and a friendly smile that – actually seems genuine.

“Hi. Sorry to barge in on you like this,” which is weird, because hold on, he’s not speaking with an out of town accent, that’s a Hell’s Kitchen guy right there, and yet his smile is friendly and warm when speaking to a known boxer with some connections to the Kitchen Irish.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Jack says, a little coolly, crossing his arms.

“Uh, Ed Nelson. My kid goes to school with your kid. By which I mean that your son’s made friends with my boy, and I really wanted to say ‘thank you.’”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Matty don't ask me who to make friends and not make friends with.”

The other man raises his eyebrows back. “Meet a kid, you tend to meet the parent. Not every kid decides the only appropriate measure to meeting the new kid is to take them under their wing. Anyway, um. Here’s the thing, I actually dropped by with a question. We asked Foggy what he wanted for Christmas, and he insists on ballet classes with your kid. Is your kid doing ballet?”

Jack nods, leaning against the wall. “Helps with the running around, teaches him how to hold still. He’s got a lot fewer bruises on his shins now. Can actually see some skin.”

“Right. Okay. What’s the class like?” Jack shrugs.

“I know the teacher. Tough old dame. The kind you mess with at your own risk. She’s good with the kids, though. No-nonsense. The kids seem okay. If anything’s gone wrong, I’d have heard about it.”

“From Matt?”

“Nah, from Jessica. Matt’s –”

“Jessica I’ve heard of,” Ed finishes. “Alright. I’ll talk it over. Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Don’t believe I introduced myself by name.”

The other man snorts. “You kiddin’? You ain’t the only one who’s born and bred here. I never threw a punch. Don’t mean I don’t watch.” He nods at the eye.

“Good luck with the next one.” Jack smiles at the other man.

“You don’t throw a punch. What do you do?”

“Hardware. You ever need a busted pipe fixed, gimme a call,” Ed says with a grin. “On that note, I’ll let you get back to it.”

“What are you doin’ here anyway?”

Ed blows out a breath. “Escaping the extended family. I love ‘em, but every Christmas, I need to go for a walk about six hours in. And the PTA has a class contact list of us all.”

Jack tries imagining himself at the O’Reilly Christmas, or the Callahan one, where he knows there are at least forty people every year.

“Yeah, fair enough,” he says. “Merry Christmas, Ed.”

He turns back to Matty, who is regarding him from the table with a quirked eyebrow.

It’s not a mannerism Jack has. Maybe he’s picked it up from Jessica. She’s pretty damn expressive for a six-year old.

“So?” Matt prompts him.

Jack allows a small smile to creep across his face, as he sits down beside his son, tells him the news, and watches his face light up.

 _Merry Christmas_ , he thinks, picking up _The Hobbit_ again. _Yeah, it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, you guys.  
> On that note, time for me to collapse, because it's 1:00am on Christmas Day, and we have fifteen people for lunch this morning. Wish me luck.


	5. Blame It On the Ballet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt, Foggy and Jessica see each other in the New Year, and Foggy makes his ballet debut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Guys, the last time I set foot in a ballet classroom was twelve years ago, and I was eight at the time. This is going to be...horrifically inaccurate. I’m so sorry. 
> 
> This one's on the shorter side; it's more of an interlude than a chapter. The plot will be back with us next chapter. Until then, enjoy!

“Matt!”  
  
That is all the warning Matt gets before Foggy slams into him, arms winding around his neck, an excited giggle already threading into his voice.  
  
“Foggy,” he manages, rocking back on his heels. It takes all of his balance to keep them both steady on their feet, but Foggy doesn’t seem to notice.  
  
“I’m so excited! Actually, I’m nervous. Actually, I’m both! I’m excited, I’m nervous! Were you nervous before your first class?”  
  
“Who gave you coffee?” Matt grumbles into Foggy’s shoulder, his Dad’s standard response to when Matt gets like this.  
  
_“Ma-aatt,_ were you nervous?”  
  
“Not really. It was my Nana's idea for me to do ballet. I wasn’t scared of starting. Didn’t expect to like it, though,” Matt says. Foggy’s arms are still tight around him. “You have to let go soon, you know.”

“How soon?”

“Now.”

“Awww.” Foggy pouts a bit, as Matt steps back, and oh, boy.

“Where are the ballet shoes?” Matt asks, as he grabs his pair from his backpack and yanks off his sneakers.

“What?” Foggy glances down at his shoes. They’re his dark purple sneakers, with the laces dyed a bright lime green.

Matt waves his shoes. “Ballet shoes. They’re special, they’re not like sneakers. They let you dance.”

Foggy frowns, looking down at his shoes. “I can dance in these shoes.”

“Not like you can in ballet shoes,” Matt says. He purses his lips, putting his foot next to Foggy’s. “I think your foot’s smaller than mine. Mine won’t fit you. Have you seen Jessica yet?”

He hasn’t seen her for over a whole week, now. She’d been mean to Phil, although Alyssa hadn’t said what she’d said or done to Phil when he and Dad had called her, and today would be the first day he’d seen her since Christmas. That made sense, they'd ended up spending a few days with her grandparents in some place called Hartford, but  _still_.

“Yeah, she’s getting changed,” Foggy says. “Do you really think it matters?”

Matt bites his lip. “Maybe we should try and hide you? But you’re the only other boy here. It’ll be harder to hide you behind the other girls,” he says.

“Or we could just talk to her,” Foggy says.

“I guess. She’s kinda scary, though,” Matt says, even as Foggy’s eyes go very wide, looking at something over Matt's shoulder.

“Hello, Matthew,” Mrs Callahan’s voice comes from right behind him, and Matt yelps, spinning to face her. “Hello. You must be Franklin?”

“Foggy,” Foggy says immediately. “Foggy Nelson.”

“Hmm. I think I know a Judith Nelson. Did you bring ballet shoes, Franklin?” Mrs Callahan asks, one eyebrow arching.

Foggy shakes his head. “It’s Foggy.”

Mrs Callahan’s eyebrows rise further. “I take it that you didn’t bring ballet shoes.”

“I’m wearing sneakers,” Foggy says, as though this answers the question.

“Fine. You’ll only be doing the basics for a while, so I recommend you get a pair of ballet shoes. And next time, wear a pair of tights like Matthew is doing. Ladies, hurry up!” she yells, turning on her heel, as she pulls her white hair into a tight bun at the base of her neck.

Jessica is the first one out of the change room, and she pelts over to Matt, hugging him fiercely.

He hugs her back, smiling. Finally, she's back.

“Next time, be nicer to Phil,” Matt says, letting go of her.

She rolls her eyes. “It was just a little glue, and it came out really easily,” she sighs.

“I missed you,” Matt says.

Her smile is soft as she meets his eyes. “I missed you too.”

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve had no classes for a month, I assume you’ve all been drastically overfed at Christmas, and therefore, we’re going to have to work very, very hard today. Let’s start with our stretches,” Mrs Callahan says, sliding to the floor and stretching out her legs in front of her. “Form lines and get moving.”

Matt grins, sitting on Jessica’s right, while Foggy sits on the left. They go through the stretches. Foggy’s expression goes unhappy when they stretch the calf muscles, and Matt tries to hide his wince. He remembers how that felt at first. ‘Unpleasant’ was an understatement.

“Alright, today we’re going through piqué turns! Everybody, on your feet!” Mrs Callahan says, after they’ve stretched seemingly every single muscle the human body could possibly contain.  
  
Matt bounces to his feet and offers Foggy a hand up, who’s looking a little worried. “What if I make a mistake?”  
  
“You won’t, you’ll make lots,” Matt replies, only realising how reassuring that doesn’t sound after the words leave his mouth.  
  
“Ignore him, you’ll be fine,” Jess says, squeezing Foggy’s shoulder briefly, before Mrs Callahan calls the class back to attention.

The principle of the piqué is simple, at least the way Mrs Callahan does it, moving to the left in a blazingly swift movement, a graceful spin that makes Matt’s eyes widen. He's still not used to how _fluid_ the moves are in ballet.

“Alright, we’re going to try that slowly. Extend the foot,” she says, flicking her left foot out to her side, flexed, her arms braced in front of her. They shift, and Foggy looks panicked, checking between Matt’s form and his own. “Then you draw your right foot up to your knee, like this,” she continues, shifting. “And then you turn on the left foot. So step, knee, turn and stop,” she says, putting it together. “Your turn.”

Matt thinks he manages it. Jessica’s tongue protrudes a little with her concentration as she does it, but he thinks she’s more or less got it, too.

Foggy, on the other hand, falls straight on his butt, and Matt winces. That’s rough. He’s already offering his hand, even as a ripple of giggles spreads through some of the girls.

“Hey, stop it!” Jessica snaps at them, glaring her best glare at them.

“Jessica, I'll handle this,” Mrs Callahan says softly, before glaring at the other students. “Ladies, I’ll remind you that all of you did exactly the same thing three months ago, the second you let go of the barre. If you continue to mock your classmate, I will force you all into practising the plank for three minutes, straight.”

Foggy’s cheeks are flushed from embarrassment, and he glances at the floor, shyly.

“It’s okay, Matt,” he says.

Matt squeezes his arm. “C’mon. Let’s try that one again,” he says, keeping his voice low.

Foggy swallows hard, but he nods, as Matt goes through the motion again.  
  
“Lisa, you aren’t bending your knee right,” Mrs Callahan says briskly, “Brittany, you’re slouching again. Let’s all try that again, shall we?”

It takes them another several tries, before they all do it to Mrs Callahan’s satisfaction. She nods firmly, and Matt sees Brittany cast a smile in Foggy’s direction. Or, well, her mouth curves as she looks at Foggy. It raises his hackles anyway. The expression just doesn't  _feel_ right.

“There are four counts that you should be working on with this routine,” Mrs Callahan says. “One, two, three, four,” she says, clapping as she moves into position. “We start in second position, and we turn to the left, and we repeat that turn three times. One, two, three, four,” she says, clapping as she turns. “Now go again.”

It’s hard work, and it takes all of his focus on his ‘spot’ in order for him to not lose his focus, but Foggy has fallen again, and Brittany is laughing again, the sound echoing around the studio–

“Enough!” Mrs Callahan says. “Franklin, you have to focus on one particular spot in the wall in order to maintain your balance, and look at it as you turn. That should help with the dizziness. Brittany, the plank for three minutes.”

Slowly, Brittany walks to the side of the classroom and gets into the plank position. Mrs Callahan sets the timer, and then turns to the rest of the class.

Foggy’s eyes go very wide at that, even as Matt helps him up.

“She’s really going to have to do that for three minutes?” Foggy asks, his voice soft.

Matt nods. “C’mon. I’ll show you how.”

Foggy falls at the end of class again, when they’re stretching their toes out, and Jessica catches him, easing him down onto the floor. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice high and anxious. Foggy is breathing hard, and he is clutching at his toes.

“They hurt,” he says, blinking back tears, “ _dammit_ , they _hurt_.”

Jessica winces, and grabs for Foggy’s sneakers. Her movements are clumsy with her speed; Matt slips the knots free so they can take the shoes off, stripping Foggy of his socks as well.

“Here?” Jessica asks, tapping the balls of Foggy’s foot, and Foggy nods as some of the tears slip free. Jessica digs her fingers into the foot, applying the pressure carefully, and Matt watches closely. He should have realised it would be harder for Foggy, starting four months after they had started.

“Do you still want to do this?” he asks Foggy, digging the water bottle out of his bag and handing it over. Foggy pushes it away, but the tears are slowing a bit.

“Are you still doing ballet?”

“Yes,” Jessica says, moving onto the next foot.

Matt nods. It’s hard, and it’s a fight, and his calves had cramped for the first three classes, like when he’d started practising his boxing stances, but it’s _good_ , and when he showed his Dad how a low arabesque looked, Dad had taken one look and whistled, and said, “Your balance is going to be _way_ better than mine, if you keep that up."

Foggy’s breathing slows a little as he nods. “Then yeah. I still want to do it.”

“It’s going to be a lot of work,” Matt warns him.

Foggy bites his lip. “Will you help?”

“Of course,” Matt says, because that’s not in question, not in the slightest. He's always helped Jessica with it, why wouldn't he help Foggy?

“Okay,” Foggy says, “I’m still doing it.” Matt lets out his breath in one go and grins at him.  
  
“We should have a name,” Jessica says, suddenly.  
  
“For what?” Matt asks her, reaching out to tug on her braid, only he tugs a little too hard, and it comes out entirely, tumbling around her face. Jessica glares, and he smiles. “Sorry. Want me to redo it?”  
  
She nods, and comes to sit in front of him.  
  
“Wait, you can braid?” Foggy asks.  
  
Matt nods. “I’ve seen Alyssa do this a million times,” he says. “It’s not that hard.” He can’t do as neat a braid as Alyssa can, of course, but he can fold the soft hair into sections and twine them over and under, until he caps it off with her elastic and it hangs neatly down her neck.

“No fair,” Foggy says, shaking his head. “He can braid and he can do ballet.”

“He can box, too,” Jessica says.

Foggy tilts his head to the side. “What’s boxing?”

Matt opens his mouth and closes it again. And then opens it, because it turns out he _does_ know what to say to that.

“You’ve _never heard of boxing_?”

The resulting explanation lasts until Foggy’s Dad comes to pick him up. “Sorry, Matt,” Ed says apologetically. Beside Matt, Jessica is rolling her eyes, but it’s not like it’s Matt’s fault that she’s already heard this explanation. “You can tell him what a haymaker is later.”  
  
“Show-off,” Jessica mumbles, but she’s smiling a little.  
  
Matt smirks at her, even as Alyssa walks into the studio. “Be nicer to Phil.”  
  
She sticks her tongue out and says, "You're not the boss of me", but she hugs him again.  
  
Over her shoulder, Matt can see Mrs Callahan almost smile at them, and that makes him tilt his head to the left. What’s so funny?  
  
“Missed you too. See you Monday.”   
  
“Bye," Jess says, before she walks over to Alyssa, and slips her hand into Alyssa's bigger one.

Matt settles against the wall of the classroom, waits for his Dad, and digs the Hobbit out of his bag.

He’s up to the bit about the spiders of Mirkwood. Again.


	6. Mother's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family feels.

Foggy walks into the classroom in three days before Mother’s Day with a worried frown on his face.

Jessica shifts in her seat, tapping Matt on the elbow.

Matt breaks off from where he’s reading, and looks up. “Hey, Foggy,” he says, cheerfully.

“Hey,” Foggy says, but it’s wrong, his tone is flat, he’s not moving as lightly as he normally does.

“What’s wrong?” Jessica asks.

Foggy bites his lip for a second, and then takes a deep breath. “Dad’s dating someone.”

Jessica’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

She knows that Foggy’s Dad is raising him by himself, like Jack. Times when Foggy’s Dad is watching them, they spend most of their time in the hardware store, playing hide and seek and trying to see whether they can do it without spilling anything off the shelf, or playing games in the apartment above the store. Beside her, Matt has gone still as well.

“Can I ask you something?” Matt says, quietly.

Foggy frowns. “Depends.”

“What happened to your Mom?” Matt says, the words tumbling out of his mouth rapidly. “You don’t have to say anything, and I’m sorry, but. Just. What happened to her?”

Foggy flinches, and Jessica swallows.

“I’m sorry,” Matt says, and his voice sounds thick. “Oh, Foggy, I’m sorry, I didn't mean to–”

“It’s okay,” Foggy says, quickly.

“No, it’s not, not if talking about it is gonna hurt–”

“Matt. She just...didn’t want to be with my Dad and me,” Foggy blurts out. “She wanted something else from her life, is what Dad always says.”

“Oh,” Matt fidgets. “Um. What did she want?”

“She became a lawyer,” Foggy says, hopping up on the chair on Matt’s other side.

Tentatively, Matt reaches out and squeezes Foggy’s shoulder, and Foggy lets out a sigh.

“Is she nice? The girl your Dad is dating?” Jessica asks.

“I think so?” Foggy says. “Her name’s Anna. She’s been around the store a bit lately. Dad says we’re going to hang out after school, in the shop.”

_Clap-clap clap-clap clap clap-clap clap-clap!_

They immediately break off the conversation and clap back. Mrs Grech smiles at them.

“Hi, everybody. Take a seat, we’re going to be talking about multiplication today.”

* * *

 

Multiplication is nothing that she hasn’t done with Mom before. The discs are stacked and grouped; two lots of two discs, and then two lots of two, and then two lots of two, and then two lots of two again means sixteen discs, between the four groups. It makes sense. Foggy seems to be struggling with it, a bit, though, and Jessica watches as the teacher runs through the demonstration again.

“So you take two discs,” the teacher says. “And then you put them into one group. That’s one group of two discs.”

Everybody nods. Jessica sighs, and shifts her position again.

She’s still thinking about Mother’s Day. About Mother’s Day last year.

Mrs Allan had made them make Mother’s Day cards, and Matt had helped her with hers, but there’d been something in the tilt of his expression that had made her ask.

_Matty, what happened to your Mom?_

Something in his expression had crumpled, before he’d looked away.

 _Dad says she got sick, and couldn’t stay with us,_ he had said.

_Did she die?_

Matt had shrugged.

_Dad didn’t say that she did. He didn’t say that she didn’t._

Her nose had wrinkled from the confusion, and he had sighed.

_She might have. Might not. I don’t know. Dad doesn’t talk about it, and neither do I._

She had slipped her head onto his shoulder, squeezed his hand, and then asked him if the card needed more glitter.

“Jessica, can you hear me?” Mrs Grech asks.

Jessica blinks.

“Wait, what?”

“Five lots of two discs would be…”

“Ten discs,” she answers.

She’s only been taught the multiplication tables as far as nine, but still, she knows them pretty well. Mom quizzes her on them, sometimes.

“How is she doing that?” Lisa asks David M., and David shrugs. Matt grins at her, and Mrs Grech nods, satisfied.

“Good, Jessica.”

Warmth seeps through her fingers, up her arms, around her neck and down her body. She did good. On something _important_. Good like Matt and Foggy.

Foggy catches on after the second explanation, and Mrs Grech has them doing a work sheet of multiplications for the rest of the hour until recess, waiting for them to fill in the gaps.

Matt leans over, from where he’s sitting on her left.

“Should I make a card for Alyssa?” he whispers.

Jessica raises her eyebrows. “For Mother’s Day?” she asks, and Matt frantically hushes her. She can already see the worry crossing his face as he nods.

“Is – is it a bad idea?” She can barely hear his whisper, it’s so soft.

Jessica tilts her head back, thinking about it.

“You were with us at Christmas,” she says, slowly. “And I sleep over some nights. And so do you.”

“Except for Sundays,” Matt reminds her.

She nods. “Except for Sundays.”

She feels warmth curling through her toes, up her legs. “Yeah, you can make a card for Mom.”

* * *

 

The cards are made in the last period of the day, after the second last bell has rung.

Mrs Grech gets out the art supplies, explaining it to them, and Matt sees Foggy’s expression go soft and hurt, and all of a sudden, Matt has a _brilliant_ plan.

He grabs Foggy’s shoulder and squeezes, but he must squeeze too hard because Foggy flinches.

“Sorry,” Matt apologises, immediately letting go. “I j-just thought. I don’t have a Mom either. But. You have a nana, right?”  Foggy nods.

“We can make cards for them,” Matt says.

Foggy tilts his head. “Everyone else is making cards for their Moms.”

Matt shrugs. “Our Dads had to have Moms too. Why shouldn’t we make cards for them?”

“Cards for our Dads?”

“N-no, that’s not what I meant,” Matt says, getting flustered now. He’d thought it would work, it had sounded so simple in his head. “That’s what Father’s Day is for, making cards for our Dads. But. For our nanas. We could make cards for them today?”

Slowly, Foggy nods, again.

“Sounds good," Foggy says. There’s still a bit of a sad hunch to his shoulders, and Matt’s not sure how to fix that, but he squeezes Foggy’s shoulder again. Gently, this time.

“C’mon, guys,” Jessica says, loudly. “The good paper’s about to go.”

* * *

 Matt’s at his Nana’s place that night. Alyssa has to teach a night class, and Dad has a fight.

He always loves the afternoons at his Nana’s place. She’s tiny, at least compared to his Dad, and soft and has a wide lap that she’s still willing to let him climb into, even though Dad’s telling him that he’s going to be too big for that soon. Her smile is wide when he hands her the card he made for her. It had been hard getting it done in time. It’s white with gold glitter on it, even though that hadn’t been Plan A.

“Really? What colour did you think it should be?”

“Blue,” Matt says, “but Jess won.”

Nana makes an approving sound. She really likes Jessica. “Listen to her. Smart cookie, that girl. Now come on, we’re making apple pie today. First, we have to preheat the oven.”

“Why does it always take so long to preheat, Nana?” 

“Cooking temperature is very, very different to room temperature,” Nana says. “Next, we make the dough.”

She’s better at cracking the eggs, so Matt just mixes the flour and water, whilst she cracks them into the bowl. Mixing it is always fun, and his mind wanders a little, as she sets him to kneading it and massaging it.

“Nana?”

“Yes, Matt?”

“You knew my Mom, right?”

She nods. “Maggie. Yes, I knew her.”

Matt doesn’t remember a lot about her. Some impressions linger. Bright blue eyes, and long red-brown hair, like in the photo Dad has of her on the mantel. Snatches from a lullaby, hummed softly and with parts that repeated a lot. The smell of lavender. He knows that she was there at the start; that he loved her; and that she left.

“What was she like?” Matt asks her.

Nana’s hands still a little before she sets the egg-shells into the trash. “I suppose you would be starting to forget.”

Matt winces, but Nana spots it. “Shh, Matt, that wasn’t a scolding. Let me think.” Nana tilts her head back and closes her eyes for a long moment before she opens them again. “Your mother loved music,” she says. ”Anything with a good, driving beat, especially. Rock music. That band – Queen, I think – she adored them. She played the guitar, and the piano. She was always a bit of a dreamer, chasing the next song that came to mind. Worked in the record store on 10th and 39th.”

Nana pauses while she sprinkles some flour on the countertop and starts rolling it. “Your father adored her, and she loved him. They’d argue about records just for the hell of it – she loved Bowie, and your Dad, not so much. He liked the band about electricity.”

“AC/DC,” Matt supplies. He’s lost count of the number of times Dad listens to Back in Black on the battered walkman on the kitchen table when he’s cooking dinner.

“That one,” Nana says, snapping her finger. “Yes, she loved that one, but she liked Bowie better. She liked breaking rules. Didn’t like anyone to tell her what to do. Free spirit.” Nana sighs. “In the end, though, I think she lost a lot because of that.”

Matt tilts his head to the side. “What d’you mean?”

Nana hums. “How can I put this. It’s not a bad thing to look at people’s expectations and say, ‘I don’t want to do that.’ If people say boys shouldn’t do ballet, then it’s not a bad thing to say, ‘I want to do ballet.’ But it’s important you don’t start doing things just because someone says you shouldn’t do it. Because then, you’re still not free of that expectation.”

Matt blinks. “Um.”

Nana laughs, the sound croaky and cracked. “Let me try that again.”

“No, I think I got it,” he interrupts, frowning. “It’s okay to do things even if some people expect you not to do that, just so long as that’s not why you’re doing it?”

Nana nods. “Something like that.”

Matt smiles, and then looks at the dough. “So what happens next?”

Nana smiles back, wide and happy. “Now we fit the dough around the pan.”

She doesn’t tell him why his Mom left, and he doesn’t ask. 

* * *

He wakes up when he hears his Dad’s footsteps entering the apartment. 

“You look like shit, Jack,” Nana says, her voice a little tired.

“Hi, Ma,” Dad says. “You saw the match?”

“Mmhm. Always did say that Murdock boys have the devil in ‘em,” she says. “Grab the kit for me, will you?”

There’s a thud. Dad must be reaching for the first aid kit.

“Stitches?” Dad asks.

“And how,” Nana agrees.

There’s silence for a while. A thud. Did something fall?

“Did, uh, Matty watch?”

“Mmhm. He went to bed about half an hour ago,” Nana says as there’s a clicking sound. “We made apple pie. You can take the leftovers home.”

There’s a smile in Dad’s voice, as well as a bit of a gasp. “Apple pie?”

“With extra cinnamon. You’re welcome,” Nana chuckles. “There. Good as new.”

Dad lets out a sigh. “Thanks, Ma.”

“He asked about Maggie today. He’s starting to forget, I think.”

“...warn a guy next time, will you, Ma?” Dad sighs. “Did you tell him–”

“No. An apple pie is quite the distraction. And it’s not my decision as to whether he learns about what happened. He deserves to know something, though, Jack.”

Dad lets out a long, gusty sigh. “I know. Just. I still roll over some days, expecting her to be there. Still walk home expecting her to be there blasting You and I in the kitchen.”

“There weren’t a lot of those days towards the end,” Nana says, a sad note in her voice.

“I know. I still wake up wondering, some days,” Dad says.

Nana hums, and there's a soft sound. Knowing Nana, she probably kissed Dad on the cheek. “I know.” She sighs. “You can take the couch. Or put the cushions on the floor, that’s probably more comfortable for you.”

“Thanks, Ma."

Matt rolls over, and tries to fall asleep.

* * *

 

At recess the next day, Matt tries not to wriggle too obviously with the question that comes to mind when he sees Foggy. Jessica doesn’t bother. In the middle of a rant about how dumb it is that Phil likes Donatello best of all, when it’s obviously Raphael who’s best, she turns to Foggy and demands, “Well, is she nice?”

Foggy blinks. “Raphael?”

“No, the girl your Dad is dating,” Jessica says, like she can’t believe she has to spell it out for him.

Foggy smiles softly. “Yeah. She does seem nice.”

“What’s her name?”

“Anna. She says she’s a nurse,” Foggy says.

Matt’s head snaps up. “Like someone who stitches people up?” And he  _knew_ that, he did, it was just – for some reason, the thought takes a clearer picture in his mind than it ever has before.

Foggy frowns at him. “Kinda what a nurse does, yeah.”

“Oh.”

Maybe he could learn to do that one day, he thinks. Learn how to stitch people up, like his Nana. Like Anna.

“Good,” Jessica says, decisively. “Then she can stitch Matt’s Dad up.”

Foggy’s head tilts to the side. “Why doesn’t he go to the hospital?”

Matt shrugs. It’s easier than trying to explain the days where they don’t know whether Mr Morris’ rent will be paid on time, or the way that Matt’s favourite jumper has patches on the elbows, and that he’s in Mrs Callahan’s ballet class because she owes his Nana the mother of all favours, according to a conversation he was probably not supposed to have overheard.

“ _Duh_ , because you don’t get apple pie at the hospital,” Jessica says, in an annoyed tone, and Matt shoots her a thankful look.

Foggy’s eyes widen. “You got apple pie? When?”

“I made it yesterday, with my Nana,” Matt says, opening his lunchbox and pointing to the piece. It's a big enough chunk to share, which is good, because Jessica _loves_ apple pie.

 Jessica leans her chin on his shoulder, and he nudges her away. “Hey, we said we’d have it at lunchtime!”

“But it looks good _now_ ,” she argues, leaning her chin in on his shoulder again.

He pokes her in the temple, and she yelps, and he snorts.

“Nope,” he says, replacing the lid on his lunchbox. “Besides, David M’s almost done with the monkey bars.”

 _Aaaand save!_ he hears in his head, like someone had said on a movie his Dad had watched the other night. 

Jessica’s eyes narrow – _I know what you’re doing, Matt_ – but then she looks over to the playground to check, and yeah, David M’s starting to walk away from the monkey bars.

“Fiine,” she grouses, standing, and brushing off her skirt. The tights under it are striped with a pretty pale green and navy pattern.

Matt grins, and follows her to the monkey bars, Foggy trailing after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Just keep typing, just keep typing!  
> Me: BUT IT'S NOT WORKING  
> Me: SHUT UP AND KEEP TYPING.
> 
> Hopefully it works better for you guys. I know today's is pretty short, but I'm trying to keep it manageable, considering all of the Big Stuff is still yet to come.


	7. December 5th, 1996

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief's a bitch.

Brian frowns when he sees Jack entering the ballet studio.They’d agreed that Brian and Alyssa would have the kids this Friday.

He takes a closer look. Jack’s walk isn’t his normal athletic stride. It’s more of a shuffle, none of the fluidity usually in it. His face is pale and sickly, his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot.

“Hey, you okay, man?” Brian asks, walking over to him quickly, setting his hand on Jack’s shoulder. _Very_ gently, no need to startle the man who boxes for a living.

Matt’s already looking worried, twisting free from Jessica’s hand on his arm and running to him.

“Daddy?” he asks, his voice smaller than it usually is.

Jack doesn’t say anything, just drops to one trembling knee and opens his arms, enfolding Matt in a tight hug. Matt’s arms wrap around his neck, and Jack continues to shake quietly.

“Okay,” Brian says, “okay.”

He slowly tugs Jack to his feet, and leads him out of the studio; gets Matt and Jessica to hold hands on the walk to the Jones’ place. Matt keeps glancing at Jack, and so does Jessica, following Matt’s gaze.

Brian keeps up as much chatter as he can, asking the kids about what moves they learned that day, but apparently there’s only so much they can say about leaps and lifts. Which Matt is going to be sore from, apparently.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Brian soothes. “You can take a shower when we get home.”

Matt just nods, and Jessica squeezes his hand again. Normally, that would win a smile, but Matt’s eyes just keep darting to Jack.

“You know Phil keeps asking about whether he can come to ballet?” Brian tells Jack conversationally.

Jack barely reacts, just humming a little. At this distance, Brian can smell the Scotch on Jack’s breath, and oh, _no_. Jack hadn't so much as had a drink in _months._

_What happened?_

 “Dad,” Jessica whines. “No, please!”

“It is not your decision about whether Phil gets to do ballet,” Brian reminds her, flicking his attention back to Jessica, tugging on his left hand. Patience. Patience is a virtue when dealing with your daughter. “And if he wants to do ballet because you do it, then that means he looks up to you.”

Jessica sighs dramatically. “But he’s just _copying_ me,” she says, in a kind of disgusted tone that suggests there could be no greater crime.

“Because he looks up to you,” Brian repeats.

Jessica sighs, again, but her glance towards Matt is worried. Matt, of course, doesn't notice; he's too busy looking with concern at his Dad.

The kids don’t have much homework, but setting them to it gives Brian enough time to tell Alyssa about the change of plans. One look at Jack’s expression has her pushing Brian out the door.

“Go,” she tells him. “I’ll take care of the kids.”

Brian nods and kisses her forehead, before he wraps an arm around Jack’s shoulder. “C’mon, man, let’s go,” he says.

Jack startles. “Where’re we going?”

“My garage,” Brian says, closing the door behind them. “C’mon.”

“Matty–”

“Will be safe and well with Alyssa,” Brian tells him, firmly. “Besides, you know full well Jessica would set anyone trying to hurt him on fire.”

Jack’s lips quirk into the shadow of a smile at that, and he nods.

Brian stifles a sigh of relief. At least he’s responding to things again.

“Let’s go,” he repeats.

They go.

* * *

 

There’s a Jeep in the garage having problems with its spark plug, and its battery. Brian makes Jack hand him the replacements for the spark plugs, and a bunch of screwdrivers that he doesn’t need, and hold the new battery, just to give Jack something to do that isn’t ripping out his hair. He hands him a beer after they replace the battery, and Jack nods, unscrewing it and taking a drink. Brian waits, looking around the garage, and nodding. Most of the cars will fix up pretty easy. He’s not sure what it is about New Yorkers, but apparently, most of them don’t fix cars recreationally. Then again, considering how damn hard it is to find a parking spot in the city, that’s not that surprising either.

“My Ma’s dead.” Jack’s voice is quiet, and very, very rough in the fluorescent light of the garage.

Brian feels a chill sensation slide down his throat.

“Mrs Friedman – she lives down on the, uh, the other block from her – found her this afternoon. She’d been late for Friday lunch. And she, uh, never was. Ever. Ma hates being late for anythin’. They say it looked like a stroke. Sudden, not painful,” Jack says.

Brian nods.

Jack takes another swig of the bottle. “She, uh. When Maggie left. God, she was...so strong. I was a mess, y’know?” The tears are beginning to fall again, and Jack ducks his head. “I show up at her door, and she was – she never said anythin’, but she never got along with Maggie all that much. Very different women. And she takes one look at me, and Matty, and he’s maybe eighteen months, and he hasn’t stopped cryin’, and I’m this close to just tearin' my hair out, and Ma just grabs my hands and pulls me inside. And she gets Matty settled in bed, and puts him down for the night, and I just completely...fall apart. Just. She’s always been the strongest, smartest person I ever knew. She was always there. She helped Maggie on the bad days, before she left, picked up the pieces when she was gone, she bought Matty his first pair of ballet shoes, was there at the hospital. And now she’s gone,” Jack says, sniffling. “And I’m a boxer, I’m not gonna be around forever. And I, all I can think, is, if somethin’ happens to me–”

“It won’t,” Brian insists, his heart already beginning to scream at the prospect as it’s yanked from side to side. He can’t lose his friend, can’t lose his family. Not again.

Jack talks over him. Of course he does. “I just– there’s no family left, Brian. My half-brother died years ago, no cousins I know of. There’s – there’s no family left.”

“Yes, there is,” Brian says fiercely, squeezing Jack’s free hand. “Yes, there _fucking_ _is_.”

That draws a shaky laugh from Jack. “Thought you didn’t like cursin’, preacher’s kid.”

“He was a missionary,” Brian corrects him. “Jack. We’re family. And nothing is going to happen to you. Not on my watch.”

Jack snorts. “I’m in some pretty deep shit, Brian,” he admits. “Boxing, the Kitchen Irish. It’s all tangled up together.”

Brian takes a deep breath. He knows, of _course_ he knows, he’s not an idiot, but to hear Jack say it aloud is startling, to say the least.

 _So what does it change?_ He can hear Alyssa’s voice. That calm, practical one she has, whenever she’s looking at a function, and the numbers.

Something might happen to Jack someday. No, something _will_ happen to Jack someday. Not even organised crime biting him in the ass. One fight too many. An injury. A concussion that goes sideways, and Alyssa and Brian don’t catch it in time, and Jack doesn’t wake up one day.

As the scenario flashes through his mind, there are two things Brian knows, two facts that come into sharp focus with a soul-deep clarity.

The first is that he will fight tooth and nail to keep that from happening, to make sure Jack is taking care of himself as absolute best as he can.

The other, is that if – when – it happens…

“We’ll look after him,” Brian promises. “I promise. He won’t be alone. Not now. Not ever.”

Jack makes a low noise in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Family, Murdock,” Brian says, wrapping his arm around Jack. “You’re stuck with us. Get used to it. I’m going nowhere.”

They walk back to the Jones’ place, and Alyssa meets them at the door, sitting them on the couch, before settling in front of Brian’s knees.

“Ma’s dead,” Jack says to her, and Alyssa twists to put a hand on his knee. She's silent for a long time: grief on her face; she'd met and liked Nana Murdock. Deep sadness, for Jack. Fear, to say the wrong thing. She always has that worry in the back of her mind, Brian knows.

“Do you want help with anything?” she says, at long last.

Jack sets his head back. “We gotta organise a funeral. Suit. Matty’s going to need one. I think I’ve got one.”

“I can take him tomorrow,” Alyssa says. “I don’t think Jessica has anything black, either.”

Jack nods. “I’ll have to talk to the Father about arranging the funeral – he’ll know what Ma would’ve wanted said. And – oh, fuck,” he whispers, rubbing at his face. “I gotta – I gotta tell Matty.”

Alyssa squeezes his knee again. “In the morning,” she says.

“He’s asleep?”

“Yes. In the meantime,” she says, grabbing one of the videos. _Clueless._ “Chick flick, Austen adaptation,” she says. “Nobody dies, nothing bad happens. Sound okay?”

Jack nods. “Please,” he says.

* * *

 

When they check on the kids after the movie finishes, Alyssa bites down on a gasp and grabs for the camera, and Jack has to admit that she’s got a point.

Despite Phil having his own room now that the Joneses have moved, he’s apparently decided that his sister’s room is superior. And something must have happened to sadden Matt, because he’s currently got Phil nestled against his chest, one arm slung over his waist like he’s an oversized teddy bear. Jessica is curled into Matt's back, with one leg hooked over his ankle.

It is, in short, unbelievably adorable.

Brian makes a small noise like he’s just trodden on his tongue, and Matt stirs a little, in his sleep, before cuddling in closer to Phil.

* * *

 

Jack and Alyssa sit Matt down the next day, while Brian takes charge of preparing breakfast for them all. Jack tries to think of a way to explain it, his mouth opening and closing several times, but Matt beats him to it.

“Did something happen to Nana?” he asks.

Jack’s jaw hits the floor, because _what the hell, kid_. “She’s dead,” he blurts out, before thinking, _fuck, fuck, that wasn’t how I meant to say it._

Matt nods.

“Okay.”

Jack blinks, several times. “Okay?”

Matt screws up his expression, thinking about it hard, and then nods.

“Okay.”

“You...do realise that it's sad, yeah?” Jack probes, because if there’s one thing that’s come to his attention, it’s that Matt has a tendency to mimic his habits, and some of them which are fine on him are not at all fine on Matt. Like not asking for help when he goddamn needs it, or admitting it when something’s wrong. That particular thing tendency had come to his attention when Matty had decided to try walking on a twisted ankle, and Jack had had to explain that just because he should be a brave boy didn’t mean that he was immune to pain.

This time, though, Matt nods. “I’m...not sad about it, though?” he says, his forehead wrinkling. “I just...feel cold. Is that wrong?”

 _Ohh_. So he _does_ feel sad, but he doesn’t get it yet.

“That’s okay,” Alyssa says, beside him. “But if you need to talk about it, we’re here. Alright?”

Matt nods, and climbs into Jack’s lap, soft and warm and comforting and smelling like him, soap and honey shampoo and laundry detergent and the barely-present-yet smell of books.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he mumbles into Jack’s T-shirt.

Jack drops a kiss on the top of Matt’s head, banding his arms around Matt's ribs. “I will be, slugger. I’m gonna need you, though, to be there for a while. And just...go with things. With the suit shopping today, and the funeral.”

“You need me to be a good boy,” Matt summarises, like the terrifyingly smart boy he is.

Jack nods. “I really do.”

Matt’s grip tightens on the T-shirt, and he nods again.

“Okay.”

* * *

 The cold feeling starts to dissipate at the funeral, which is odd, considering that the  _weather_ is freezing. Jessica is shivering, even in her long-sleeved black dress, and her boots, and her scarf and coat, and Matt's not much better in his suit jacket. But the numbness is starting to uncurl from his chest, leaving sadness to crawl through his lungs, into his stomach, up his trachea, like in the  _Book of the Human Body_ they'd had found two weeks ago on Foggy's bookshelf. 

It's starting to hit him, that it means no more days spent making apple pie, or cinnamon scrolls, or chocolate chip cookies. No more days where she nagged him into practising his ballet moves and cheered every time he did a piqué. No more time spent holding her hand at Mass. 

All he wants to be right now is alone, is on his own, in some wilderness where the realisation can sink through him, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. But it feels like half of Hell’s Kitchen showed up to the funeral. Matt’s head is swimming from the number of his grandmother’s friends who have kissed him on the cheeks and told him how good he is, and how much his grandmother loved him, and for some reason, even though they’re nice, they’re _really nice_ , it makes him want to scream and crawl out of his skin and run away and leave it all behind, until he hits the woods to which he's never been.

Jessica sees something in his face, and she seizes his hand before a woman Matt’s pretty sure he recognises from Mass can get to them, dragging him under one of the tables in the church’s side-room. The tablecloths are just long enough to hide them.

“Dad’s gonna be mad,” Matt says.

Jessica’s nose wrinkles. Her hair is pulled back from her face by a black headband, and she keeps scratching at her arms underneath the sleeves of her dress.

“You looked – not good,” Jessica says, with a shrug.

Matt nods. “I felt like I was gonna explode,” he admits.

Jessica nods, and curls her arm around him.

“It feels weird,” Matt says. “I mean. On Thursday, this week. That’s usually when I go to Nana’s. And I walked out of school, and instead Dad was there, and he took me to Fogwell’s while he trained. And. I think that’s when I got it. That I’m not gonna see her again.”

Jessica tilts her head back. “What about heaven? Dad said your Nana went there.”

Matt nods. “I know she did. But that’s still a _really long time_ away,” he tries to say, only his voice breaks a little on the last few words.

Jessica doesn’t say anything, just opens her arms, and Matt wraps his arms around her back, buries his face in the flowers embroidered on the shoulder of her dress.

She doesn't say anything when the flowers become wet and salty with his tears. 

They don't expect for the Father to poke his face under the table cloth, a while later.

"May I come in?" he says dryly.

Jessica doesn't blink. "Not if you're going to pinch anybody's face," she says.

The Father winces. "I will admit, I don't miss that part of childhood," he says. He crawls under the table with them, though, even though he has to curl up very, very small. It looks a little painful, actually. "Will you be alright?" he asks Matt. 

Matt wipes at his eyes and his nose, but the Father offers his handkerchief. 

"How?" he asks the Father. "How do you live with it?"

The Father hums. "First, I find remembering who God is helps. Namely, that He's not a liar. And if He says He will wipe away every tear from our eyes, then that's what He'll do."

"But  _how_?" Matt asks, because he knows that, and he's _still sad_.

The Father's smile is small and knowing and sad, too. "Taking life ten seconds at a time is the only way I've found that helps," he says.

"How does that work?" 

"Count to ten. And then start again, and again."

Jessica's eyebrows fly up. "That's a lot of ten seconds."

The Father knows. "I try not to think about that part too hard."

There's a companionable silence for a while, before the Father sighs. "I hate to do this, but we should probably get out from under the table."

Matt nods. "Thank you, Father."

"Wait, whose Father are you?" Jessica asks, her brow furrowing. 

That's the part where Matt laughs until he cries, and cries until he laughs, until the Father's handkerchief is soaked through. 

Jessica doesn't leave his side the entire time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to any New Yorkers. I know nothing about whether you are or aren't a city full of gear heads, but from what I've heard, traffic in New York is so nuts that there's almost little point in owning a car, so I'm guessing you're not. Probably. 
> 
> I know this one is also on the shorter side. I really can't say much about that, aside from the fact that, well. I, uh, lost my remaining grandmother last year. And, as the summary notes, grief is a _bitch. ___


	8. I Can Hear the Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The promised chapter in which the gang is actually pretty happy. Oh, and there's a wedding.

#  _Valentine’s Day, 1997_

For some reason, despite it being Thursday at 3:30 in the afternoon, the store is closed.

“What the–” Anna murmurs, digging in her bag for the key. Jessica’s eyes go very wide, like she’s thinking about something, and Matt frowns. The store has _never_ been closed before.

“Is Ed sick too?” he asks. Foggy’s Dad hates being called Mr Nelson, and says that he’s only ‘Edward’ to his aunts and uncles. Matt was pretty sure Foggy was sick when he didn't come to school today. That was usually the only thing that'd keep Foggy from school.

Anna shakes her head. “I didn’t think he was, but maybe I’m wrong,” she says.

The key jiggles in the lock, and the door swings open.

There’s a thin string stretching from the top of the door, and stretching to one of the shelves of goods, and Jessica points to it immediately. “String!”

Anna frowns. “Why would it be there?”

“I think you’re supposed to follow it,” Matt says.

She frowns, until something seems to _click,_ and a slow smile creeps over her face.

“That idiot,” she says, but her words are fond.

“Bad word,” Jessica says gleefully, pointing to the shelf. “Let’s see!”

The shelf is the one where Ed keeps the nails of different sizes and shapes. In the middle of them, right where Anna can see it, instead of the price tag, there’s a note, with something written on it that makes Anna laugh.

“What is it?”

“Lyrics to a song,” Anna says.

“Lyrics?”

“The words to a song,” Anna clarifies. “One of my favourites. _Hope you’re in the mood because I’m feelin’ just right_ _,_ ” she sings, smooth and melodic and jazzy.

Matt points to where there’s another string extending across the aisle and snaking up over the opposite shelf, leading to the shelf two aisles over to the left. “I think you have to keep following the string,” he says.

They keep finding the tags, each of them making Anna laugh or snort, and at one point, look almost like she’s about to cry.

“Anna?” Matt asks, worried. “Are you okay?”

She blinks very, very hard, several times. “I’m fine, Matt,” she says, mustering a small smile, “I’m fine.”

She presses the scraps of papers into Jessica’s hand. “Jessica, can you hold onto these for me? It’s very, very important,” she says.

Jessica nods, carefully folding them into the pockets of her jeans. “What are you gonna do?”

Anna smiles brilliantly at them, and walks behind the counter to the door that leads up to the stairs to the apartment.

When she flings open the door to the apartment, Jessica squeals, and Matt blinks.

“I thought you were sick?” he said to a grinning Foggy.

“I didn't _say_ I was sick," Foggy says, which clearly proves that Matt needs to stop leaving so many loopholes in his arguments.

“Yes,” Anna says, before Ed gets a chance to do more than open his mouth. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Ed is smiling, is rising to his feet, and Jessica _shrieks,_ and then Foggy is laughing as Ed kisses Anna on the lips. Matt finds something very interesting on the ceiling to look at.

“Okay,” Ed says. “So, tomorrow?”

“No. Your Mom will skin you alive, there’s a bunch of sh– _stuff_ to plan,” Anna says, and Jessica grins again. “No, Jessica, I am _not_ putting another quarter in the swear jar. It doesn't count!”

* * *

_Saturday, 19th July, 1997_

“What if I mess it up?” Foggy asks him, for the twelfth time that morning, anxiously shifting on his feet.

Matt checks the watch Brian gave him for his birthday. It’s black with blue lightning bolts patterned around the fabric of the band.

“You’re not gonna mess it up, Foggy,” he says, almost in unison with his Dad.

“I dunno,” Brett demurs, and normally, Matt likes Brett’s snarky sense of humour, but it’s getting a little irritating. He’s not sure if he gets to say anything about it, though, seeing as Brett is one of the groomsmen, along with one of Ed’s brothers, who is apparently running late. “It’s pretty important being a Ringbearer. Are you at Samwise Gamgee’s level yet, Foggy?”

Foggy’s eyes widen. “I don’t think so?” he asks, in a frightened voice.

“Brett, back off,” Ed says, and Brett ducks his head, but Matt can see his mouth twisting into a smirk.

“Dad, what if Brett’s right? What if I’m a Frodo instead? What if I go power-hungry and refuse to destroy the Ring?”

“Well, that would be concerning, seeing as it’s not your job as the ringbearer to destroy the ring,” Dad says, as he grabs the comb and starts on Matt’s hair, which has somehow managed to stick up again since this morning. Dad blames the humidity.

“But what if I get power hungry and refuse to hand them over?”

“Foggy, the rings don’t give you power,” Ed repeats, patiently. He exchanges a look with Dad. “Apparently, letting them read the _Return of the King_ was a mistake.”

“It was fun, though,” Matt feels compelled to comment.

Foggy grins with a nod, and then looks somewhat disappointed. “I still can’t believe Saruman got to the Shire.”

“I know! Why would you let that _happen?_ ” Matt agrees. Why Tolkien apparently thought a happy ending was a _bad_ thing, Matt has no idea.

“Yeah, letting them read _Lord of the Rings_ wasn’t your brightest idea,” Jack agrees. “It’s still better than what happened when Alyssa took them to work.”

Matt grins, at the memory of the book that one of the professors had pressed into his hands, when he’d sat in on one of the law classes.

“Why, what happened then”

“Someone gave him a book by Thurgood Marshall. Haven't heard the end of it since."

Brett’s head snaps up, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. He's surprised, Matt thinks. “Marshall? Like the judge?”

Matt nods. “Yeah, some of his speeches. It’s really, _really_ good.”

“Huh.”

Matt yelps as the comb finds a knot in his hair, and Dad sighs, patting his shoulder. “Sorry, Matty.”

“‘S okay. When are they getting here?”

They’ve finished setting out all the chairs in the park. There’s nothing fancy about the chairs, just white folding chairs, along with a couple of picnic tables for food for lunch. But there’s a not-priest – dammit, what’s the word for that again? – sitting in the front row, reading something, and Ed’s fiddling with his cufflinks.

“The mob will be here in about two minutes,” Ed says, “bridal party, should be here in an hour.”

“How many people are comin’ who _aren’t_ related to you?” Dad asks, as he slips the comb back into his pocket.

“Brett and Bess, Mrs Martinez down the road, a bunch of the Knights, the Salvatores, and...I think that’s it,” Ed says, before his phone buzzes. “Oh, it’s Mike, he must be on his way,” he says, flipping it open. “Hey, Mike?”

“What...what d’you mean, your leg is broken?”

“Well, yes, but is it a simple fracture, is it a compound fracture? Did you call the ambulance, which hospital are you– right, Metro General. Okay. Alright. Um.”

“I don’t want this to happen without you!”

“I’m not explaining it to Mom, _you_ can explain to Mom why you broke your leg on the wedding day!”

“Oh boy,” Dad says.

“Okay, fine, I guess we could sneak from the reception early, and swing by your room at the hospital before Anna and I go to the store. But really, uyou’re sure?”

“Okay. Thanks. Yeah, I love you too, man,” Ed says, before hanging up, and letting his breath out slowly.

“Uncle Mike broke his leg?”

Ed nods. “Uncle Mike broke his leg. Hey, Jack, you wanna be the best man?”

“I’m not givin’ a speech,” Dad warns him.

“Okay, but you can stop me from running away, when I inevitably freak out, right?”

“Yeah, that I can do,” Dad nods. “Sorry about your brother. Is he gonna be fine?”

“Yeah, he got in a collision on his bike, he’s lucky he isn’t worse off,” Ed sighs, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll visit him after. And I gotta tell Mom. I need a distraction.”

“Matt and I could set something on fire?” Foggy offers.

“Not quite what I’m thinking of.”

That's the point Matt and Foggy are officially in charge of showing the Nelsons to where they’re seated, where they are then greeted by Ed. This means enduring a lot of yelling from Foggy’s deaf great-aunt who refuses to believe that she has hearing difficulties, and keeps instructing him to “speak up, Franklin” until he finally snaps, “It’s _Foggy,_ dammit!” before storming off. Ed winces and walks after him.

Matt rolls his eyes, and offers his hand to Jacoda, wincing when she asks him in a booming voice what he wants to be when he grows up.

“A nurse, I think. Or a cop. I wanna help people,” Matt says.

“A nurse, hm? Not a doctor?” Jacoda asks, loudly, again.

Matt shakes his head. “Nurse.”

Foggy comes back and walks the cousins to their seats after a couple of minutes, a flush on his cheeks, and Matt’s guessing that he’d gotten a scolding from Ed about not tantruming on a wedding day.

Matt offers him a thumbs up – _you did come back, after all –_  and turns to the next Nelson relative.

* * *

When all of the guests are seated, and after all the relatives have been greeted, that’s when Jack notices that Ed has been fiddling with his pocket square for five minutes at least with shaking hands.

He walks up to him, tapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, got a minute?”

“Yeah, sure, what is it?” Ed asks,  smile firmly in place, as Jack leads him into a shady spot over by the tables.  

“Did you wanna have that freak out now?” Jack asks, and Ed nods fervently.

“Oh, God, yes.”

Jack nods, and takes out the flask he’d brought. “Here.”

Ed takes it with a grateful look, and takes a hefty swig, before blinking very hard and tilting his head back as he swallows.

“Sorry. I forget not everyone’s a Scotch man,” Jack apologises.

“‘Sok,” Ed says.

“Alright. Shoot,” Jack orders.

“What if I’m not good enough for her? What if she decides I’m not what she wants?” Ed asks softly.

Jack sighs, and holds out his hand for the flask, and Ed slaps it into his palm.

“So what?” Jack asks him.

Ed blinks. “Say again?”

Jack nods. “You heard me. So what? Do you still wanna get married to her? Cos if you need to make a getaway, you should probably tell me now.”

“No! I _want_ to get married to her, I just...I just want this to work. I want this to be good,” Ed says.

Jack sighs. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do to control what she does. All you can ever do is decide what you’re gonna do.”

Ed swallows. “And that’s enough?”

Jack squeezes his shoulder. “Let’s pray so.”

Ed takes a deep breath, and straightens his suit jacket. “Okay.”

“Dad?”

Jack looks over to see Matt’s voice. He’s looking at them questioningly, and a little worriedly, as Jack secrets the flask somewhere.

“Yeah, Matty?”

“The bride’s here,” Matt says, with a grin on his face, before he slips down to join Brian, Phil and Alyssa in the right hand side of the seats.

* * *

Jessica’s hair is glinting in the summer sunlight with ribbons plaited into her hair, pale blue that matches her dress. Bess Mahoney walks down the aisle in ice blue as well, baby's breath and forget-me-nots in a brilliant bouquet. Finally, after about forever, Anna walks down the stage. Her lipstick is a brilliant red, her teeth are flashing in a grin that stands out against her dark skin, and her hair is streaming down her back in tiny, intricate braids that make Matt's eyes widen with how  _many_ of them they are.

When Matt realises that Jessica's not wearing shoes, she's already reached the end of the aisle, and he glances at Alyssa, who is raising her eyes to the skies, and Brian, who is leaning over to whisper in her ear. Whatever he says, it makes Alyssa laugh, and Matt grins again.

The ceremony goes for ages, and he can see Jessica shifting impatiently from bare foot to bare foot, her hands twisting around the handle of her empty basket of flowers. She did a good job; the aisle now has pale blue petals scattered all over it. At one point, she starts staring very intently at the aisle. Matt stares at it, too. He just can’t watch Anna and Ed kissing. It’s _weird._ Then again, so is all kissing.

After the ceremony is over, she makes a point of picking up all of the flowers and putting them back into the basket. Matt’s not sure why, but he helps her anyway.

Foggy joins and Phil them, too, and Jessica puts the last petal in the box with a count of, “Three hundred and thirty two.”

“Petals?” Matt asks her, just to confirm.

She nods. “Three hundred and thirty two,” she says again.

“That’s a lot of petals,” Phil says.

She shrugs. “Doesn’t take that long to spread them out, though.”

They’re all leaning over the flower basket when they hear the ‘click’ of a camera.

Maureen Nelson grins at them. “Sorry, kids! Have to keep moving!” she says.

Foggy's already gotten up and is racing over to where a Boxer is chasing after a tennis ball, shrieking " _Puppy!"_ at the top of his lungs. Matt and Jessica exchange looks, before Matt grabs Phil's hand and they start racing after him, Jessica yanking her skirt up so she can run more easily. 

"No, the dog is scary!" Phil whines.

"No, it's not, I'll show you!" Jessica promises him, reaching over to take his other hand and squeezing it.

* * *

The first stop after the ceremony is over is swinging by the hospital.

Alyssa’s not entirely sure why, and to be honest, it’s the last thing she wants to do, on a day which has included Jessica ‘losing’ her shoes a total of five times, which is impressive, or on a day in which the cake had nearly been destroyed by a very determined Phil.

Matt flinches the second they step through the doors of the hospital, and Jessica wrinkles her nose.

“Still smells bad,” she says.

“Wait, still?” Matt tilts his head. “When did you have to go to hospital before now?”

“My Nana in Hartford,” she shrugs. “Mom says she’s sick.”

Sick. Well, yes. She'd really struggled to find another word for premature dementia that she could explain to an eight-year old that didn't boil down to "Mommy's Mommy is losing her mind." Just because Jessica was smarter than people gave her credit for being was no reason to dump something like that on her.

“Oh,” Matt says. He finds Jessica’s hand and squeezes it.

Jessica squeezes back, and Alyssa bites back a smile. Three years, and they are still so goddamn cute.

Mike Nelson’s room is three floors up, and it’s already full of a booming voice that makes Foggy blanch and dig in his heels when he hears it.

“Not Aunt Jacoda again!”

“Oh, Aunt Jacoda again,” Ed says dryly, scooping Foggy up and settling him on his hip, taking Anna’s free hand with his other. She’s already changed from the wedding dress into a loose skirt and a peasant blouse. “If we have to suffer, buddy, then so do you.”

“I simply don’t understand how you could be so irresponsible, Michael!” came the shouting that _very clearly_ carried through the doors of the hospital room.

“It’s not like I planned on colliding with the U-Haul, Mom!”

“There it is,” Ed says, squeezing Anna’s hand. “You ready for this, darlin’?”

She nods, her lips forming a wide grin. Despite all the hassles of the day, she is _radiant_ with delight, luminous with her joy “Showtime. Foggy, five minutes, then you can go with Matt and Jessica, if that’s still the plan for Alyssa.”

Alyssa nods. “Still the plan,” she confirms. A few days without Foggy wouldn’t be the same as a honeymoon, but it would be a break. And between both her and Brian _and_ Jack, they should be able to get through until Tuesday, at least.

“ _I_ _n the land of Mordor, in the fires of Mount Doom_ _,"_  Matt begins to intone under his breath, as they pull him into the hospital room.

“Drama queen,” Jessica mumbles back at him, as they walk in, and honestly, Alyssa has to agree with her on this one.

“Hypocrite.”

“Am not!”

Tuesday. Please, dear God, let her patience for dealing with _all four_ of their children simultaneously hold out that long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna's maiden name is Knight. I just felt the need to mention that.


	9. 15th of June, 1998

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt’s nine years old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot off the press. I'm going away for the week-end tomorrow, so I might give this a polish when I come back. For now, enjoy having had three updates in a one-week-ish period.

They’re walking down the street from Brian's garage when it happens. He’d shown them how to change a tire and fix spark plugs today, and Jessica is now half-covered in grease and engine oil. Matt’s cleaner, possibly because he hadn’t decide to investigate where Brian kept the engine oil, and they’re walking to meet Jack. The summer is hot again, sunlight beating down, and Jessica's wrinkling her nose because she can feel the engine oil drying on her cheek. 

The first sound that catches Matt’s attention is the sound of tires screeching. Matt is sprinting before his mind’s even made up, leaping and tackling the old man out of the way, as the driver tries to brake in time. He manages it, but without the old man, the car hits the back of the chemical truck, and Matt lands less than half a metre away from the car.

There’s the sound of a collision and something going boom, his face is burning, it hurts, it’s bleeding, his arm is on fire, there’s something getting into his eyes and he wipes at them, but they’re still burning–

Brian is there, holding his head, his voice shaking, “Easy, Matt, easy, don’t move, buddy, I think your arm’s broken, the ambulance is on its way,” and Matt can hear Jessica crying, but that’s wrong, Jessica never cries–

Dad is there, Dad is there, holding him, saying in a shaking voice, “Close your eyes, Matty. Matty, Matty, close your eyes, it’s gonna be okay, close your eyes–” and Matt clings to him, and he’s crying now, fear in his throat, panic on his tongue, something bitter and nauseating welling up and he tries to control it, he can't throw up on Dad, they already did laundry this week, and when he opens his eyes–

He can’t see the sky. Can’t see his city. Can’t see his Dad.

There’s the sound of screaming, and Matt dimly realises that it’s coming from himself.

* * *

The paramedics get there too late.

They bandage Matty’s eyes. He’s passed out now, he’s screamed himself unconscious, and Jack can’t tear his eyes away from the rise and the fall of his chest. Jessica is there in the ambulance with him, having quietly slipped into the back of the truck while they bandaged Matty’s eyes. He doesn’t know where Brian is. He’s not sure if he cares.

Matty sucks in a deeper breath, twitching a little, his good hand going to his face, and immediately starts crying again. “Daddy! Daddy!”

He’s never heard his son sound so desperate, so afraid.

“I’m right here, Matty,” he hears himself saying already. He wishes he sounded strong, but he doesn’t. His voice is trembling. “I’m right here, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

“Dad, Dad, I can’t, I can’t see,” Matt says, his voice trembling. “Daddy, it _hurts_ –”

“You were in an accident,” the paramedic tells him, hands fluttering over the cords, adjusting things. Jack doesn’t know. He doesn’t care, either. He’s still terrified by the bandages covering his son’s eyes, by the inflamed redness of the skin of his forehead, by the bruise stretching from temple to cheek, by the carefully immobilised arm. “You saved a man’s life, Matt.”

“I can’t see,” Matt repeats, his voice shaking, and that gets a sob from Jessica. She inches closer to the bed, her hand coming to squeeze Matt’s good hand, and Matt squeezes back, his hand white-knuckled and Jessica gasps a little in pain, but grips back. “It burns, it _burns_ –”

“I know,” Jack says, smoothing Matt’s hair down, the only thing he can do, Jesus, that’s his son there, and he's in pain, and he can't _see_ , and Jack is _useless_ – “It’s okay, Matty,” he says, and if nothing else, at least Matt can’t see him crying, but that’s not even a consolation. It’s about as far from a consolation as you can get. “It’s okay, I’m right here. I got you, Matt. I’m right here.”

The paramedic is praying under his breath, a Hail Mary, and God, Jack wishes that would do something, would make him feel calmer, but it doesn’t, Matty’s more observant than he is at this point.

“You’re gonna be alright, Matty,” he hears himself repeating. It’s like viewing the world through glass, like he’s locked behind a screen. It’s not like when Maggie left, or Ma died, no storm of emotion prompting him to rage, to drink, find a punching bag and beat the shit out of it. That might come. Later. But now it’s like he’s just very far away. He can see Jessica crying, and he walks around the other side of the bed to draw her close, settle her on his hip, and he squeezes Matt’s good hand. “I’m right here. Feel my hand. I’m right here. It’s Daddy. It’s gonna be okay,” he says. He’s failing, failing so badly at being strong for him right now, but Matty squeezes back, his grip white-knuckled and strong.

An image of him as a baby flashes before Jack’s eyes: eyebrows furrowed with concentration, tongue protruding from his mouth, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, and a grip that had blown Jack away with its strength.

"I'm right here," Jack tells him, but God, he wishes neither of them were.

* * *

 

When they get to the hospital, they wheel him into a room. Doctors flit and buzz, it’s all a blur, and the only thing Jack can focus on is the rise and fall of Matt’s chest, he’s alive, he’s alive, God _damn_ , let it not be permanent, let him see again–

Jessica ends up answering some of the doctors’ questions – how did it happen? Where were they? What were they doing before that? – and Jack’s fairly sure they’re trying to keep her grounded, but that’s how he learns that his son was trying to be a hero.

The knowledge tastes bitter on his tongue.

He goes to the phone to call Alyssa, and finds Brian there, his hand shaking. “You called her?” Jack asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Brian says, looking up. He meets Jack’s eyes and swears. “When did you last eat today?”

Jack blinks. Of all the stupid things to be worrying about. “Uh...breakfast?” Brian’s arm is around his shoulder, steering him to a chair. “Wait here, I’ll grab you something to eat. Jessica’s just gone to the bathroom to get the grease off with one of the nurses, she’s going to come back here.”

“You don’t have to–”

“Yes, I do,” Brian says, and there’s something in his voice that makes Jack think that fighting him isn’t going to do much good.

He crumples into the chair, and puts his head between his knees, and breathes.

Brian’s hand lingers on the back of his neck, before he says, “I’ll be right back, Jack.”

At the sound of a child’s footsteps, Jack manages to lift his head. Jessica’s there, in ratty jeans and a fresh T-shirt and jumper that the nurse must have scrounged from somewhere, her face and hands and arms clean of engine oil and dirt now, but her nails are bitten and she’s shaking a little.

“Jack?” she asks in a soft voice. He nods at her. Can’t bring himself to smile, not when his heart is screaming with terror. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice tiny, and she’s trembling, she’s shaking, she’s worried he’s going to be mad at her. _What?_  “You always tell us to look after each other, and I didn’t, and it’s my fault he’s– he’s–”

He doesn’t let her finish the sentence, settling his hands around her ribs and setting her on his knee.

“Hey, listen,” he says, leaning his chin on the top of her head. She burrows into his hold, her frame vibrating, and holy shit, she loves Matty, she really does.

 _Will she still?_ The cynical part of him, the part of him that had surfaced after Maggie left, the small little hard part of his heart that lets him survive match after match and conversation after conversation with the Fixer asks.

 _Shut the fuck up_ , Jack tells that voice. “Ain’t your fault, Jessie. Shit happens,” he tells her. Alyssa and Brian wouldn’t like him swearing, part of him notes, but, well, tough shit. “Ain’t your fault. I can’t tell you like Matty would, you know that, but it ain’t your fault.” Jessica’s nod is slow, and she’s crying into his shirt, tears soaking through the thin fabric of the T-shirt. 

Five minutes later, Brian is there, and so are Alyssa and Phil, and Ed and Anna.

“I thought you had a class?” he asks Alyssa.

Alyssa’s eyes are red-rimmed, and her jaw is clenched. “My sophomores weren’t in hospital,” she says, something deadly and angry in her tone. Not at him. At life.

“Mommy?” Jessica asks, lifting her head from Jack’s shoulder, and Alyssa’s expression instantly softens.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Mommy!” Jessica wriggles out of Jack’s lap, and Alyssa’s tote bag thuds to the floor as Jessica scrambles onto her hip, never mind being nine years old now. Good thing she's skinny. “Mommy, it was so scary, and I’m so scared, and Matt’s hurt, and he says he can’t see, and there were things exploding, _Mommy_!”

Alyssa’s arms close tight around Jessica, and Brian shoves the pad thai and the chopsticks into Jack’s hands.

“The Thai is better than hospital food,” he says, and Jack nods, getting his grip on the chopsticks.

Ed’s shaking his head, and leaning against the wall. “What the hell happened?”

“Pile up on Tenth and West 55th at the intersection,” Brian says. “Matt pushed an old man out of the way. Probably saved his life. But the truck was carrying chemicals and spilled ‘em, and they got in Matt’s eyes.”

“ _Fuck,”_ Ed says.

Anna’s already walking down the hall, talking to the nurse at one of the desks. Jack watches her, unable to breathe around the fear in his throat.

“Okay,” Anna says, walking back to them. “He’s going to be in a recovery room, and they say he can go home in a couple of days, but there’s going to be a long programme of physiotherapy and trauma recovery, because of the vision loss.”

“How are you this calm?” Ed asks her.

“Fake it till you make it,” Anna says, no change in the inflections in her voice whatsoever. “The doctors are going to be out to talk to you in a bit, Jack. Do you mind if I sit in? Help translate the med-speak?”

“I’d appreciate it,” Jack tells her, at about the same time as Alyssa asks, horror in her voice, “Vision loss?”

Anna nods. “Yeah, from what the nurse said…”

“To what extent?”

Anna winces. “They haven’t fully finished the tests yet–”

_“To what extent?”_

Anna looks Alyssa dead in the eye. “It may be total.”

There’s a moment where Alyssa looks to the heavens, pain in every line of her body, in the parting of her mouth and the way she blinks, and Brian steers her to the chair before she can fall.

She grabs onto Jack’s hand and squeezes hard.

He squeezes back.

There’s no sound but the rushing of nurses’ feet from one place to another for a very long time.

* * *

 

The Doctor’s name is Keppler, and he is a slight, wiry man in his fifties with kind eyes and quick, bird-like motions.

“Jack Murdock?” he asks them, and Jack nods, rising.

Anna walks beside him, and Keppler raises an eyebrow – probably at the fact that Anna’s wearing a ring, and Jack stopped wearing his a long, long time ago – but doesn’t say anything.

“Mr Murdock, first things first, Matt’s condition is stable and you should be able to have him home with you very soon. He doesn’t appear to be immunocompromised, and though we’d like to run through some radioactivity tests, nothing’s showed up on the preliminaries,” Keppler said. Jack glances at Anna and mouths, ‘Help.’

“It probably didn’t fuck with his immune system that we can tell so far, and we don’t think he’s turning green either. So far,” Anna says.

A knot that was tight in Jack’s chest loosens just a touch.

“What’s the bad news?”

The Doctor grimaces. “The bad news is that we’re fairly sure he’s going to have total vision loss. The broken arm, we’ve splinted, and that should heal in about two months, but his sight...Mr Murdock, for all legal and medical purposes, your son is blind now.”

He knew the punch was coming. It made it hurt no less.

“When can I see him?” Jack asks.

“Half an hour,” Doctor Keppler says. “If you need coffee, there’s a Starbucks across the street. Room 432, fourth door on the right, two corridors away.”

“Thank you,” Anna says, which is good, because Jack can’t say anything, and Jack leans against the wall of the hospital. Anna squeezes his hand.

“I’ll grab the coffee. You go see him.”

“He said half an hour.”

“More like five minutes. Doctors always overestimate, trust me.”

Jack nods and walks back to the group and Jessica stirs in Brian’s arm. Alyssa and Phil have fallen asleep on each other’s shoulders. Must have been up early.

“Is he okay?” Jessica asks him, voice small. Jack shakes his head, and offers his palm to her.

“C’mon, grease monkey,” he says. The nickname comes out heavier than usual on his tongue. “Let’s go see him.”

Their walk to the hospital room – two lefts through a couple of corridors, fourth door on the right – and find him. Jessica wrenches her hand away from him and immediately goes to the bed, kicking off her shoes and ducking under and around the wires, moving carefully to not disturb them, and setting her head down on Matt’s good shoulder.

Matt stirs, and immediately starts thrashing. Jack darts in and grabs his wrist. “Easy, easy, Matty, easy, I’m right here.”

“Dad, Dad, I can’t see, who’s – where –”

“You’re in the hospital,” Jack says. “You were in an accident. Some stuff got into your eyes, that’s why you can’t see. I’m here, and Jessica – I think she’s using you as a teddy bear, that's who's lying on your shoulder. If it hurts, tell her to get off.”

She huffs. “I was worried.”

“I can’t _see!”_

Jack closes his eyes, as Matt’s fingers scrabble on his face. “I know, pal,” he says softly. “I know. I’m right here.”

* * *

 The first night in hospital is a long one.

Jack doesn't sleep the whole night. Matty wakes up at several points, disoriented and confused, and always,  _always_ screaming about his sight. Nothing seems to help, but Jack keeps putting his good hand on his face, closing his eyes as his son's fingers frantically trace his face, as Jess wakes too and wraps her arms around Matt's ribs, humming lullabies into his ear. At around midnight, Alyssa takes Phil home. She tries to rouse Jessica from where she's fallen back to sleep, curled around Matt, but Jessica clings even tighter.

"I'll look after them," Jack says, surprised the words still manage to come off his tongue, as exhausted as he is.

Alyssa gives a defeated nod, kisses Jessica's forehead, and Jack's cheek and scoops Phil up.

There's a look to Alyssa's face that Jack's seen a few times when she leaves. Resolve. To do what, he's not sure. Maybe to leave. Maybe it's one thing when Matty was just a normal kid, but now that he's going to be–

Jesus, he still has trouble thinking the word. 

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to face it.

 _Blind._ His boy's going to be blind.

He's still going to be the smartest little boy in Hell's Kitchen, but he'll probably have to quit ballet. Almost certainly won't ever learn to box. 

 _I got my wish,_ Jack thinks, bitterness crawling in his throat.

He's gonna have to learn Braille. Learn how to walk and move around again. Fuck, how are they going to do school for him now? Would the school pay for equipment like Braille textbooks? 

 _Jesus, God, have mercy on me,_ he thinks, leaning his head back against the wall.

He doesn't look away from Matt's bed the whole night.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, kid," he tells Matt, when he stirs in Jess' arms, like he's going to come awake. "You're stuck with me, kiddo."

Matt sighs and rolls over, nuzzling a little into Jessica's shoulder, sleep claiming him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All medical errors are mine.


	10. The Show Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It ain't how you hit the mat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me attempting to write hospital adventures: LOL WHAT AM I DOING  
> My Dad, an actual and literal doctor: That's an excellent question! No, Clueless, he doesn't need radiation testing if he's just gone chemically blind, radioactive alkaline chemicals are pretty damn hard to find!  
> Me, a dork who failed freshman chemistry: Curse your sudden yet inevitable devotion to facts! 
> 
> Warnings for many fragmented sentences, and the near preternatural resilience of children (in particular, one Matthew Michael Murdock.)

Jack opens his eyes to see the nurse hovering over Matty’s bed, changing the bandages over his eyes. Matty’s being polite, but his answers to her questions are monosyllabic, clipped, the way he gets when he’s angry but trying to hide it. Jack’s not sure if that’s a good sign or not.

He glances at the clock. 9:45am. Jessica’s shoes are still by the hospital bed, and he can hear water running from the bathroom. She’s probably in there washing up.

Jack stands when the nurse leaves, and Jessica emerges from the bathroom, smiling brilliantly at Matt, water droplets still trickling down her face.

“You’re awake!” she says, climbing onto the foot of the bed.

Matt frowns. “Jess?” he asks, reaching for her hands. “You’re still here?”

“Uh-huh. Phil’s gonna come and visit too. Mom tried to get me to go home, but I was asleep,” she says.

Matt’s frown deepens. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to ten,” Jack says, padding forward to the side of Matty’s bed and picking up his hand. “Hey, you. How you feelin’?”

Matt turns his head away, shaking it.

“ _Matt_ ,” Jess says, climbing up the bed to try and meet Matt’s eyes. Jack can see the moment where she realises the problem with that. “Please?”

Matt sighs. “I’m tired, Jess.”

His mouth is twisting at the corner, like when he says he’s done his homework, and it’s true – for half of it.

“Tired,” Jack repeats. “And?”

“Tired,” Matt repeats, but there’s no conviction in it.

“And?” Jessica asks, her voice soft and worried.

The emotions emerge on Matt’s face like a bird from its shell, fragile and oh so easily damaged.

“I’m scared,” Matt whispers, and that’s the point where Jessica throws her arms around him in a tight hug.

“I know, pal,” Jack says, kneeling beside the bed and rubbing at his back.

“Are you?”

He can’t lie to his son about this. Not here, not now.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am,” he says, and Matt nods, the motion sharp and jerky against Jess’ hair.

“Everything’s so loud,” he whispers. The hospital. I can hear _everything_ , the screaming, the crying– Daddy, it’s so _much_ –”

“Don’t listen to them, okay?” Jessica interrupts, her hand tightening around Matt’s waist. “Listen to us. Listen to my voice. Did I tell you about this new movie Mom and I got? It’s called _Lilo and Stitch._ It’s about these girls in Hawaii, and an alien–”

Jessica talks all the way through visiting hours, through Brian and Phil coming in, and Matt’s ear stays cocked to one side, as he listens.

“Jess,” Brian finally interrupts, “c’mon, honey, you gotta shower and get changed.”

Matt squeezes her hands. “Go. I’ll be okay.”

“Sure?” Jess asks him, her eyes suddenly way too dark with worry to be a nine-year old’s.

Matt nods. “I’m sure,” he says.

Jessica slips off the bed and she walks into the bathroom, leaving Phil to scramble up onto the bed.

“Hi, Matt,” he says.

Matt cracks a smile. “Hi, Phil. How’s the morning?”

“Sunny,” Phil complains. “And Dad says that if I keep playing with the Pokémon cards at dinner, he’s going to take them away.”

Matt chuckles. “I mean, that means you get to figure out where he’s stashing them.”

“Don’t encourage him, Matthew,” Brian chides from the arm-chair. “He needs to be able to get through a meal without checking on Pikachu’s health.”

“Dad, I don’t _have_ Pikachu, it’s different,” Phil complains. He’s silent for a moment, and Jack can see the gears moving in his head. “Does it hurt?”

Matt shakes his head. “Not much. It hurt a bit yesterday.”

 _Jesus, kid_ , Jack thinks, leaning his head back against the wall. _I know I told you it's about how you get up, but sometimes, you scare the shit out of me._

Phil’s silent for another long moment. “Are you gonna get a dog?”

Matt shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Jessica emerges from the bathroom, in a fresh T-shirt, pulling her hair into a ponytail, and climbs onto the bed. There’s a knock at the door, and Jack sees another doctor there. A Dr Rothschild.

“Hi, Mr Murdock,” he says. “And...attendants.”

“I’m his brother,” Brian explains, not rising from the chair.

“Matt, my name is Doctor Rothschild.”

“Title.”

“Pardon?” the doctor says, blinking.

Matty shrugs. “Your _name_ is Rothschild, but Doctor is your _title_.”

“I see your mind’s sharper than ever,” the Doctor says, with an appreciative nod. “Quite so. Matt, we’d like to do some tests of your vision right now, if that’s alright.”

Matt nods, gingerly climbing out of the bed. “Do I just come like this?” he says, gripping the edge of the hospital gown.

The Doctor says, “Yes, it’s not necessary for you to get changed right now.”

“I’m coming,” Jessica says.

The Doctor blinks. “I don’t think that’s necessary either,” he says, casting a wary eye at Brian. Clearly spotted the resemblance, then. No flies on this Doc. But he doesn’t know ‘em, because Jack can see Matt’s jaw clenching. _Three, two, one…_

“Where I go, she goes,” Matt says, calmly and regally, like a little prince explaining the basic principles of authority to a slow underling.

The Doctor’s lips quirk in amusement. “Very well. Perhaps she’d like to take an eye test as well.”

 

They walk out of the vision test, with Matty confirmed to be legally blind, and Jessica confirmed as having 20/20 vision.

Jessica squeezes Matty’s hand, and promises that she’ll be his eyes.

Matt’s smile is bitter, but it’s there, and he squeezes Jessica’s hand back.

“Matt, are there any other symptoms you’ve been experiencing that we should know about?”

Jessica stirs, even as Matt shakes his head.

“Shock,” Jack says, “and apparently everything’s really loud.”

The Doc’s eyebrows fly up. “Loud? Ordinary noises are hurting you?”

Matty looks like he wants to melt into his chair instead of hold a conversation, the old shyness coming back full force.

Jessica squeezes his hand, her grip strong, her knuckles going pale.

Matt swallows. “It’s like... I can’t stop hearing everything. It’s hard to even breathe. Everything is so loud, so, so _much_.”

The Doc’s eyebrows rise even further. _Concern_.

“Have you ever felt this way before?”

Matt shakes his head. “Just since yesterday. Never before this.”

The Doctor nods slowly, and Jack looks between his son and the man who might be holding something back.

“Matt, Mr Murdock, we’d like to run some more tests. If you clear those, you should be out of here in a few days, but we’ll refer you to some programmes for trauma recovery and occupational therapy.”

“If you wouldn’t mind translating, Doc,” Jack says.

There isn’t the flicker of judgement he was expecting in the man’s eyes.

“We’d like Matt to see a psychiatrist to help him with the mental and emotional transition to living with his blindness,” he says calmly. “And an occupational therapist. Someone who helps you figure out day-to-day living.”

Jack stamps down hard on the anxiety of how the _fuck_ they’re going to pay for everything and just nods, anchored by the sight of Jessica’s hand around Matt’s arm.

“Okay,” Jack says.

* * *

Alyssa walks into the hospital at noon, accompanied by Foggy and Anna Nelson, a plastic bag with containers looped around one arm, and a stack of binders in the other, pulling Jack and Brian outside of the room.

“It’s not a lot so far, just preliminary research,” she says, handing the plastic bag to Brian, who inspects it. “This binder’s for the 504 plan, this binder’s for the Blind Sports Association, this binder contains a copy of the text of the Americans with DisabilitiesAct, and this card is the name of the lawyer my father recommended.”

Brian blinks. “You called your Dad?”

Alyssa bares her teeth in what could politely be called a smile. “Desperate times.”

“Alyssa, go down and start at the beginning,” Jack sighs.

“Well, obviously, we’re suing Rand.”

“... _what?”_ Jack lifts one hand to his forehead. “Alyssa, I appreciate the thought, but we already have to see a psychologist and what the Doctor calls an O.T, and...now you want to add a lawyer to the mix as well?”

Alyssa nods. “I really do. I want to sue Rand for damages and make them _pay_ , I want to take this 504 down to the school because Matt is way, _way_ too smart to be written off because of a goddamn chemical accident, and I want to see him go back to ballet and do a damn pirouette again. And I’m pretty sure it’s all doable.”

Jack lets out a long breath. “There’s no way I can afford a lawyer,” and the admission tastes like ashes on his tongue.

Alyssa cocks an eyebrow at him. “Who in the hell said that you were paying for the lawyer?”

He feels Brian clapping him on the back. “We’ll figure it out.”

Jack’s not sure what his face looks like right now, but it makes Brian’s eyebrows rise. “You didn’t think we’d let you do this on your own, did you?”

Jack’s throat closes up, and Alyssa’s binders fall to the floor as she and Brian pull him into a hug.

* * *

 

Foggy’s voice--

“Hey, no fair, you can’t attack on the first turn!”

Phil--

“Can too!”

The scratchiness of the sheets underneath his fingers, the burning feel of the hospital gown against his back, his own breathing harsh and ragged in his ears, the smell of blood and pee in his nose, someone is _screaming,_ there’s a rapid _thudthudthud_ that’s increasing, increasing--

Stopped.

“Matt. Matt. _Matthew!”_

Jessica’s voice, coming from very close to his ear, hands closing around his wrists, hair that smells like apple shampoo, he can hear a nurse shrieking down the hall, can hear someone crying--

“Matt, it’s me. I’m right here. It’s me.”

She’s pressing something into his hand. Rough, wooden, smoothly sanded, smells like-- smells like--

His fingers travel over beads, and he gives a sob as he feels his rosary in his hands.

Jessica pulls him close to her, enveloping him in her smell, her strength.

“It’s okay, Matty,” she whispers in his ear. “Just focus, okay? Just feel the cross.”

“‘S called a rosary,” Matt corrects her.

There’s a pause, before Jessica says, “You still talk too much.”

“And you’re still a dictator,” Matt retorts, poking his tongue out at her, but he smiles a little anyway.

“I’m not a dictator. I just know better.”

Matt can’t quite suppress his laugh, and Jessica giggles into his shoulder as well.

“Matt?” he hears Foggy ask tentatively, from the floor. “Can you ask your Dad for a dog?”

Matt tries to look where Foggy is. “Get your own dog!”

“I’ve tried, Dad’s still saying no!”

“And he’s going to continue to say ‘no’,” another voice cuts in. A woman. No, not a woman. _Anna_.  “Hi, Matt. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Matt says, and it’s not quite the truth, not yet, but he thinks it could be. “I’m okay.”

He hears the door swing open again.

“Mom, Dad! Uncle Jack!” Jess says. “Does this mean Matt’s going to get a dog?”

Dad clicks his tongue “Pretty sure Mr Morris has a no-pets policy. But we’ll see.”

Matt huffs a laugh. “You will.”

Dad’s voice goes strange. “Matty, are you-- joking about this?”

Matt considers this statement, and nods. “‘S quicker than crying.”

Another person in the room shifts. “He’s got a point, Jack. Humour’s probably the most effective coping mechanism he has available to him.” _Anna, again._

“What do we do about movie nights?” Jessica asks him. Matt leans into the touch as her arm snakes around his middle.

He hears someone shifting on their feet. _Another_ person in the room? Is Lopez from Fogwell’s going to show up next?

“Baby, let me tell you about something called audio description _._ ”

“Alyssa?” Matt twists in Jessica’s hold. “You came?”

He hears someone’s breath hitch. “Of course I came, Matt,” Alyssa says, but her voice is a lot closer now, and the bed is creaking. “I’m holding my arms out, by the way. You’re not getting out of hugs that easy, little man.”

Matt smirks. “Marco?”

“Polo,” she laughs.

Not far. On the bed.

“Marco?” Matt asks, crawling toward her. The bed creaks again, and he flinches from the sound, but-

“Polo,” she repeats, and he _focuses_ with everything he's got. Her voice, soft and warm, like blankets after getting caught in the rain walking home from school.

“Marco?” he asks again, but he's pretty sure--

“Polo,” Alyssa says, as warm hands close around his wrists, and she pulls him into her side. “Polo, Matthew.”

 


	11. Transition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disability is complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GrayJay, inspiration is taken from your wonderful ‘Idle Hands.’ Anybody who hasn’t read it, go and read it. Now, as a matter of fact. I’m serious, open another tab and read the thing, because it’s awesome. 
> 
> Content warnings for interaction with ableism, implicit and explicit, and use of a particular slur beginning with the letter 'c.'

Week 1:

There are a thousand reasons why getting a dog isn’t a great idea, according to Dad.

For one thing, Mr Morris _does_ have a no-pets policy. Matt’s pretty sure they can argue that, on the basis that a guide dog isn’t a pet, it’s a working animal, which is why you’re not allowed to pet them when they’re at their master’s side and in the harness.

“He’s correct,” Mr Havisham, the lawyer that Alyssa has hired, says. There’s a thread of something in his voice. Matt’s not really sure what it is. He’s trying to get better, but it’s hard, having to figure out what people mean by their _sound_ instead of sound and sight. “Matt – do you prefer Matt, or Matthew?”

Matt wrinkles his nose, feels Dad’s elbow nudge him gently as a silent rebuke. Fine. “Matt,” he says. “I like Matt better.”

“Matt it is, then. Would you mind telling me about what happened on the day of the accident?”

Matt flinches, as the sounds and tastes wash over him.

“I, uh, don’t remember a lot,” he says. “It’s hard. I think...we were walking to meet Dad.”

“Who is ‘we?’” Mr Havisham asks.

“Me and Jess and Phil and Brian. Brian’s my uncle. Ish.”

“If I’d met him earlier, he woulda been Matty’s godfather, probably,” Dad says.

“Ah. Continue, please, Matt. Tell me the story.”

Matt licks his lips. “It was hot,” he says. “It was a really hot day. Jess was covered in engine oil. Brian had been showing us how to change tires and fix spark plugs. We were at – 10th and 54th?”

“55th,” Dad says.

“Right. I just – I heard the tires screeching, and I remember running, seeing the car that was going to hit the old man. I tried to shove him to the road, get him out of the way, and then something hit the truck, it had been heading perpendicular to the way the car was going. I heard an explosion, and then–”

He can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe_. He can feel his eyes burning behind the sunglasses Dad bought, he can feel the acids licking at his skin, he can feel his throat closing up and he can’t breathe–

Dad’s hand, rubbing circles into his neck. “Deep breaths, Matty. Deep breaths. In. _In_ , Matty. In.”

Dad is lifting him into his lap, and Matt squirms, he’s not a _baby_ , but his head is feeling really light–

Dad’s chest expands into his back, pushing the rough cotton of the T-shirt against his skin, and Matt inhales.

“Good,” Dad says. “Good job, Matty.”

There’s a sigh from Mr Havisham. “Has that been happening often, Matt?”

Matt tilts his head to the sigh, slipping out of Dad’s lap. “What?”

“Times where it’s difficult to breathe? Or maybe it’s hard to think instead of panicking?”

Matt swallows. “Sometimes.”

“Hmm. Are you seeing a therapist?”

He nods. “Emily. She’s really nice.”

“Have you told her about this?”

Matt shakes his head.

“I think you should,” Mr Havisham says, before moving on. “So, there was an explosion. And then?”

Matt swallows. “I was on the ground. I – something was in my eyes. One of the chemicals. It burned. My head was bleeding. That’s how I got the broken arm, and, well.”

“The blindness,” Mr Havisham says. “You had no vision problems prior to that?”

“Sight clear as day before that,” Dad says. “Never needed no glasses, no problems seein’ colour, nothin’.”

“That’ll help. I’ll pull the media reports. Do you know the name of the man you saved?”

Matt shakes his head.

“There was a statement,” Dad says. “In one of the news reports. Someone picked it up, ran with it as a ‘ _human interest_ ’ –” Dad says the words with a venomous twist to his voice – “story.”

“That will help as well,” Mr Havisham says. He stands. “I’ll need a couple of weeks to pull this together, but you’ve got a case.”

“And how much will I owe you?”

There’s a pause, before Mr Havisham says, “You don’t need to worry about that.”

Dad goes very quiet. “I don’t take charity, Mr Havisham.”

“I’m not offering my services for charity,” Mr Havisham says, dryly, but his heartbeat accelerates a little. “Let me win this case, and _then_ we can discuss payment.”

“You’re that confident?” Matt can’t help but ask.

“I surely am,” Mr Havisham says, and there’s steel in his voice.

* * *

 Week 2:

The therapist that they’re seeing is really nice. Her name is Emily Taylor, and she doesn’t do the thing he’s finding a lot of adults who he’s never met before are doing, where they speak slowly and carefully to him, like him being blind means he’s automatically lost his hearing. But then, on the other hand, she’s always telling him to _‘stay positive’_ and that makes him feel like beating the crap out of a bag, like his Dad does when he’s pissed off.

“Good,” she says, as he slowly, gingerly walks around the perimeter of the room, his cane extended in front of him. She’d asked him to show her what the O.T had been teaching him this week. “That’s good, Matt. How’ve you been feeling this week?”

“Okay,” Matt says.

“Yeah?” her tone is light. She’s trying to make it an invitation to talk, maybe?

Matt bites down on the urge to snap:

 _No, I’m_ not okay, _how could I be? I wanted to be a nurse. You know that? I was going to stitch people up, I was going to help people, so the fighters like my Dad have people who take care of them._

He doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “I think we might be getting a dog.”

Dad’s still cagey about it. Cautious. He’s worried about vet bills if the dog gets sick, about supplies for grooming and feeding it, about all the work that gets generated by a dog, about how to even go about getting a guide dog.

“A guide dog?” Emily asks, a few extra shades of warmth colouring her tone. Like yellow, sunshine-warm and bright.

Matt nods, realising as he does so that he’s started biting his nails again. “I mean, a cane is good. But. I like the idea of a dog.”

“Dogs are good,” Emily says. Her tone’s lower now. Statement. “I grew up with a dog. It always helped me, if I was nervous or if I had a big speech coming up to deliver, I could practise with my dog.”

“Do you still have one?” Matt asks.

She shakes her head. “I have a cat. It’s easier, when you’re living in New York and working long hours.”

Matt huffs a laugh. “Aren’t they a lot less friendly than dogs?”

“Cats are plenty friendly. They just express it very differently to how dogs do,” Emily says.

* * *

 Week 3

Matt learns to knit.

The O.T’s name is Frankie Sabotka. She’s very proud of how he’s navigating, but he’s fumbling buttons, shoelaces. She says that it will come with time, but that considering that he’s not playing with little things like toys as much, or making paper aeroplanes, a lot of his fine motor skills aren’t getting as much practise and daily use that they used to.

“I don’t play with toys all that much, except with Jess,” Matt told her, when she talked about that at their last appointment. “I read.”

Used to. I _used_ to read, he had thought, mentally.

“Who’s Jess?” Frankie has asked. Her voice had been light. Friendly. Both his therapists’ are light, and friendly, and approachable, and it’s like they’re handling him like he’s the spun glass ornaments that Alyssa only ever put on certain spots around the Christmas tree because she didn’t want Jess or Phil knocking into them.

It made Matt want to _scream._

But now, when Matt walks into her office, he hears her chair creak as she swivels. “Hi, Matt! Come in, I was just getting some things organised. Chair is at your two o’clock, four steps away.”

Matt turns and steps. He misses moving easily, without his cane extended in front of him, and Frankie says that will come with time as well.

He’s tempted to ask her when he’ll stop hearing cats yowling two blocks away, but Father Martinez mentioned self-control being a virtue the other week, and in this case, he’s probably right.

Frankie puts something in his hand. It’s...soft? Mostly soft. Warm. Strands, like spaghetti noodle strands, thousands of them, it’s familiar, it’s–

“Is this a ball of _yarn?”_ Matt asks.

“Yep! Play around with it, and have a feel, see how you go with it.”

Matt’s unspooled about a metre of the yarn when she asks him, “Matt, would you like to learn how to knit?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I never learned how. Nana – she passed before she could teach me. I can bake, though.”

Frankie hums. “Excellent skill. C’mon, let me show you how.”

Her fingers settle over his as she guides him into tying what she calls a slip-knot.

It’s complicated, it’s difficult, and they have to snip new ends off the first strand of yarn multiple times, but by the time the hour is up, he’s got one row of stitches knitted.

Frankie hands him a pair of knitting needles, and the ball of yarn, and tells him to keep practising at home.

* * *

 

Week 4, Part 1 

It takes a solid four weeks for them to call and arrange a meeting with the social worker, the occupational therapist, the therapist, the school counsellor, Matty’s old teacher, the one who will be his teacher this year. The binders have grown considerably, and Jack carries them for Alyssa as they walk into the room. Considering that she’s born the brunt of researching this entire thing, it’s the least he can do.

“Hey, Jack,” Ms Taylor says, and the ripple of greetings race around. The school counsellor and Matty’s teachers offer their condolences. “We were so sorry to hear about Matt’s accident. He’s a great kid.”

“Sweetest boy you ever saw,” the old teacher, Mrs Evanson, offers.

There’s genuine compassion in the eyes of the old teacher, but the new one, the one whose name tag reads Carl Mason, looks flat. He’s young, almost the same age as Jack, and there’s almost apathy in his eyes, even.

“Smartest kid, too,” Alyssa says cheerfully, plucking all three binders out of Jack’s hands. There is only one seat at one side of series of tables drawn together for the meeting on the near side to the door. Pointedly, Jack stalks over to the side and carries another over. There is _no fucking way_ he’s doing this on his own. He’s got his pride, sure, but making sure that Matty could still do well in his classes? Infinitely more important right now. “Which is why we’re here.”

Alyssa stabs a finger at the green binder. “Text of the Americans with Disabilities Act.” The finger shifts to the orange binder. “The binder for the 504 plan.” The finger shifts to the purple binder. “Report from our wonderful occupational therapist, the therapist, the hospital, the lawyer, and my own observations.”

“You’ve done your homework, I see,” the new teacher says, slowly.

“I’m an academic,” Alyssa says, with an expression that’s less a smile than a baring of teeth. _Fuck with me, and you lose the hand that did it_ , spelled out in teeth and lips. “I’ve been observing Matt closely this summer. I believe I have your agreement that most of the accommodations in order for him to successfully travel through school will be mostly along the lines of environmental accommodations, specifically in the area of assistive technology. Braille textbooks are obviously our first port of call. However, as that will only take care of the portion of learning where he is absorbing the information, as opposed to the testing of it and the submission of assignments. So, how do you propose to help?”

The teacher flinches. “Well, in terms of tests...how’s his hand-writing?”

The purple binder is flipped open. There are a half-dozen neat tabs separating all the bits of evidence, and Alyssa flips to the neon green tab labelled ‘O.T’, withdrawing a sheet of paper.

 _The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog_ , it reads, in Alyssa’s neat handwriting, at the top of the page.

Matt’s hand-writing, on the other hand, which used to resemble a nine-year old’s scrawl, now looks something more like chicken scratch. It's illegible. 

Mrs Evanson winces. “Well. That’s quite the regression.”

“Indeed,” Alyssa says, her tone steely. “Handwriting for tests is not an option. What else have you got?”

“Dictation with a scribe is what we’ve always done in the past at my previous school,” Mrs Evanson offers, her rings glinting on her dark fingers as she drums them against the table-top. “Assignment submission is going to be a bit trickier, if that’s what his handwriting is like, but that won’t present a problem for a few years, and it’s mandatory for these to be updated on a yearly basis.”

“What about takin’ notes?” Jack asks.

“Ordering and creating Braille notes for the lessons is an option,” the O.T. offers. “Another idea is for Matt to carry a tape recorder and record the lessons.”

“The tape recorder won’t help that much,” Alyssa says, shaking her head. “The entire purpose of notes is to provide summaries which help someone review a topic, and depending on for what specific task the notes are for, to _then_ review the topic in detail.”

It takes almost a solid hour of back and forth, of Alyssa’s bared smile and the green binder sitting on the white plastic table like a grenade, but Jack watches in amazement as she corners the school into providing the Braille textbooks, audio recordings of lessons which will be given to Matt, and a Braille note-taker.

When they walk out of the room, she leans against the wall, and he can see the energy and the fight drain from her body as she falls against it.

“Thank you,” Jack says, softly, because there’s no way he could have done that meeting. There’s just no way.

She gives an exhausted nod. “Home time,” she says. “And I think I need chocolate after that.”

“‘Lyss, after that, if you wanted me to start calling you the Queen of Sheba, I’d do it cheerfully,” Jack tells her, squeezing her shoulder.

She smiles. “Well, if you’re going to start, I won’t say no. Brian might have a question about it, though.”

* * *

Week 4, Part 2 

“I want to go back to ballet,” Matt says.

Jack almost chokes on the water glass he was drinking. “Now he tells me this,” he mumbles.

He’d known, of course. Matt’s technique of sighing loudly whenever they had to walk past Mrs Callahan’s studio was not as subtle as he thought it was.

“I miss it,” Matt says, softly. “I miss pirouetting, I miss doing a piqué, I miss it _all_.”

Jack sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Alyssa had brought out that binder from the Blind Sports Association. There _were_ ways to work around it. Wouldn’t be able to blend in, though.

“You know you won’t be able to do it without help,” he tells Matty. “The other kids might tease.”

Matt’s mouth purses into a thin line. “They already do,” he says, shortly. “When they think I can’t hear them. Which means I still have to prove them _wrong_.”

And oh, there it is, a hint of rage underneath the level tone, a twist to his mouth that speaks of a desire to take the kids in question out back and show ‘em what’s what. Of course, that’s a hair more difficult when you can’t see ‘em.

“How?” Jack asks him. “How are you gonna do it?”

Matt smiles. “Jess says she’ll help. And Foggy will too, probably. If I’m not moving my feet right, they can put them in the right spots.”

“You’re gonna get a lot of bruises on your shins, kiddo, if Jess is kicking your feet into place,” Jack sighs. “You really, _really_ wanna go back?”

Matt nods, something in his expression soft and hopeful. Fucking hell, he’s _hopeful_. How?

Jack downs the rest of the water, wishes it were something alcoholic, and nods.

“Okay, then,” he says. “I’ll call Alyssa, and we’ll talk to Mrs Callahan tomorrow.”

“The cavalry.”

“What?”

“Alyssa. We should start calling her and Brian the cavalry.”

“That works, doesn’t it?” Jack agrees, ruffling Matt’s hair. “Alright. Bedtime, you.”

_“Dad.”_

“Nope. Go on, go to bed,” Jack repeats.

Matty pouts, and shuffles his feet, but to bed he goes.

* * *

Week 4, Part 3 

“Okay, but seriously, where are we going?” Matt laughs as Brian’s hand wraps around his arm and pulls him out of the car. The upholstery of the car burns against his skin, but focussing on the roar of the engine helps a little. He hears Jessica and Phil giggle from beside him, and he pokes his tongue out at them. Hears a minute sound –– one of them pulling a face, maybe?

Dad huffs from the passenger’s seat in the front.

“Matty, we’ve told you a thousand times that it’s a surprise,” he says.

“It’s–” Phil begins to say, excitedly, but there’s a soft sound of something cutting him off.

Matt sighs. “Jess, you can’t put your hand over Phil’s mouth anytime he says something you don’t want him to.”

“Can too,” Jessica says, bright and cheerful.

“You can’t,” Brian says, “and we will have a long discussion about that later, little miss. Phil, it’s a surprise. Remember what we said about surprises?”

“Have to not say what it is,” Phil admits reluctantly. He doesn’t sound happy, and Matt can’t exactly blame him. They’ve been driving for _hours_ , and playing games of word association to keep each other entertained, after _I Spy_ had been vetoed and the _Mulan_ soundtrack had been played twice times in a row, and it honestly has felt like forever.

“Exactly. Matty, c’mon,” Jack says.

Matt extends the cane in front of him, and carefully steps out.

“Curb,” Dad says, and Matt steps up onto the curb. There’s the smell of grass in the air, it doesn’t smell anything like Hell’s Kitchen.

“Are we still in New York?” he asks them.

“Nope, we’re in Hartford,” Brian says.

“Where I was born?” Phil’s voice, very bright and cheerful now.

“Yeah, your grandparents insisted on us staying with them,” Brian says. “Your Mom had just finished her PhD, and was exhausted, and, well, we needed a place. So we stayed here until you were about one, and then Alyssa got offered a job at Barnard.”

There’s the creaking of a gate and Matt huffs. “So, what, we’re visiting them?”

“Nope, not exactly,” Brian says. There’s something in his voice, sweet and happy, like brown sugar and cinnamon, and Matt hears a bark, full-throated and deep, like it’s in his ears, like the dog barked right next to him, but they're not at a park, so that must mean...

“Holy _shit_ _!”_ he bounces on his feet, making a beeline for Dad’s exasperated, _“Matty–”_

“I’m getting a dog!” Matt says, wrapping his arms around his Dad’s ribs, nuzzling into Dad’s T-shirt. “I’m getting a dog!”

Dad’s sigh is mock-exasperated, but there’s another thread of light into it, like when they’re teasing each other about Braille.

“Yeah, slugger. Not right away, it’s a bit of a whole process, a whole buncha steps to go through, but–”

 _"_ Score!” Jessica says, and Matt laughs, turning to her and hugging her as well.

“...is it going to be a nice dog?” Phil asks tentatively.

Matt grins in the direction of Phil’s voice.

“Yeah, Phil. I bet it will be,” he says.

* * *

 Week 5

The first time he goes back to ballet, there’s a new girl in the class, Tiffany Gallagher. She asks him what the cane is for, and Matt winces when, after explaining that he’s blind, she asks him why he’s there.

“Because he’s a better dancer than I am,” Foggy says. Jessica is in the changing room, which means that Tiffany Gallagher’s teeth are safe for now.

It’s harder. It’s a lot harder, because he’s missed four weeks, and because Jessica hasn’t learned how to properly kick his feet into place, and Foggy keeps confusing which foot is which, leading to him saying things like, “Put your left foot on your right knee. No, wait, right foot on your left knee.”

“What’s it like?” Brittany asks him softly, when it’s time for a water break. “To – to _not_ see?”

Matt shrugs. “It’s hard to describe,” he says. “I still remember a lot of what things looked like. I know you have brown hair, and that Foggy’s blond, and Jess has black hair, and that red is still my favourite colour. I just...don’t see them anymore.”

Beside him, Jess huffs. “Can you do my hair?”

Matt smirks, and pats the ground in front of him. “Let’s find out.”

Foggy swears up and down that it’s a neat braid, and Brittany says carefully, “It’s okay.”

Matt sighs. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Redo it,” Jessica orders him, but she squeezes his hand. “C’mon, Matty.”

“Dictator.”

“Nah. I just know better.”

* * *

 Week 6:

It’s the first time he’s been to mass since the accident.

The smell of the place is reassuring. Wood polish, and paper, and glass. Father Martinez’ tenor rings around the place as he goes through the mass, and the taste of the communion wine on his tongue is familiar.

He lingers in the pew after the service, resting against Dad’s shoulder.

“You can’t fall aslee–Father,” Dad says, shaking him a little.

“Hi, Jack,” Father Martinez says. “Hi, Matt. How’s it going?”

Matt smiles. The Father’s voice is casual, relaxed, but there’s a thread of something in it that he’s not sure what it is.

“It’s good. How about you?”

“Very good. We got something in the other day that I’ll think you like,” the Father says. “Give me a moment.”

Matt listens to the way the Father’s footsteps retreat to near the altar, and then slowly reapproach.

“Both hands out,” the Father instructs.

He slides something into Matt’s hands, the smell of paper, and Matt runs his fingers over it.

“Unfortunately, they don’t have many translations other than King James available,” the Father says apologetically, as Matt flips it open. _Is this what I think it is?_

He opens it to the first page, and traces his fingers over, ‘ _In the beginning, God created_ ’ and finds himself blinking back tears.

“Thank you, Father,” he says.

“You’re welcome, Matt,’ the Father says, and Matt burrows a little deeper into his Dad’s hold.

* * *

Week 7:

They’re halfway through August when Matt finishes the scarf.

He runs his fingers over it. On average, thirty stitches per row, done over and over and over, until he’d had to start carrying his backpack to carry it and the knitting needles in it in order to take it from appointment to appointment, and to ballet and back, and to Fogwell’s and back. Frankie said to practise, and he's beginning to find it soothing, like his brain can unwind from the worrying – about what people will think, if somebody's going to grab his arm and assume he wants help being guided down the street, what if someone sees his eyes – and let his fingers take over.

“What colour is it?” Matt asks his Dad, fingering the scarf.

“It’s red,” Dad tells him. “A really nice red.”

Matt hums. “Think Jess’d like it?” Red’s not her favourite, purple is, and it’s the wrong season to give knitted things, but he can’t shake the feeling that she might like it. Maybe.

Dad snorts, for some reason. “Yeah, I think so.”

When Matt gives it to her the next day, she flings her arms around him in the tightest hug she's ever given him, and promises that she’ll wear it _all the time._

“Jess, it’s _August,”_ Matt says, around the thick feeling in his throat. “You’ll die of, like, heat-stroke or something.”

Jess wrinkles her nose. “So? You’ll fix it. You fix _everything.”_

“I can clean a  _scrape_ , heat stroke is a little harder,” Matt says, but Jessica just laughs and says that she’s putting the scarf on right now.

* * *

Week 8: 

The settlement comes through.

Jack can’t quite believe it, but they’re sitting in Havisham’s office, with Brian at his left, and Matty at his right, and they’ve settled for–

“I’m sorry, _how much_ did you just say?” Jack asks, and if his voice sounds like a deflating balloon, well, so sue him.

“Four million dollars,” Havisham says, cheerily. “They were not at all eager to go to court, when I could prove that they’d been carrying chemicals in poorly-sealed and improperly constructed barrels.”

“ _Jesus_ _,”_ Jack says, leaning his head back against the obscenely comfortable chair. That’s – that’s a terrifying amount of money to think of. That’s enough for _college tuition._ That’s enough for Matty to go to any school he can get into. He’s still depressed by the fact that he won’t get to be a nurse, but this – this could change his life. It’s enough for Braille books for _pleasure_ _,_ not just the textbooks, and for sweaters without the elbow patches and no more re-sizing things with Anna’s help from the church bin, and for shoes, and for Jack to actually _go to the damn hospital_ –

No. No, it’s enough for him to _quit boxing._ If he can find something else to do with himself that won’t lead to him going crazy, anyway.

Brian’s hand settles on his shoulder, steadying him, anchoring him, which is good, because Jack’s dizzy with all the potential, the sheer power that represents, the _change._

“Thanks for your help,” Brian says. “How much do we owe you?”

“Nothing.”

Jack blinks. “What?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Mr Havisham repeats, closing the file and sliding it across the desk to them. It’s stark white against the rich mahogany of the desk, the words _'_ _Matthew Murdock’_ neatly printed across it.

“Mr Havisham, I can’t imagine the amount of work you’ve put into this.”

“About fifty hours,” the man says, pushing his reading glasses up his face. “Sorry. Habit to keep track. It’s difficult, even though I’m retired.”

What the _fuck_. “You’re _retired?_ But you-you took the call.”

“Yes, they don’t warn you about how boring retirement is,” Havisham says, dryly. Something in his expression softens. “Mr Murdock, I am a very good lawyer. But nonetheless, there were, during my career, many days in which I came home feeling ashamed of what I had done, or had not been able to do. And today, I know that I will leave my study without that feeling.”

Matt stirs. “This was about pity? About needing to help a _cripple?”_

His tone is hostile, venomous, and honestly, Jack’s feeling a little bit the same way.

Havisham shakes his head. “This is about the fact that for once, I had an opportunity and the means to correct an injustice to the full extent of the law’s capacity to do so, when I saw it. Admittedly, it will not restore your sight, Matthew. But the money does nonetheless have the capacity to change the course of your future.”

Matt’s head tilts back. “So it was about your pride.”

“If you like,” Havisham admits, a dry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You really should consider law as a career track yourself.”

Matt bites his lip. “I wanted to be a nurse,’ he says, looking at his knees.

Havisham shakes his head. “You enjoy a fight too much for the health-care profession,” he says, and huh. It’s really that obvious, then? “I think you’d do well with law, though.”

“It’s something to think about,” Jack says, quietly. “Thank you, Mr Havisham.”

Mr Havisham smiles. “You’re very welcome. Brian, do give Alyssa my regards, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Brian says, as he stands, helping Jack up, and Jack’s grateful for the support, because his head’s still a whirl.

The summer air when they step out of the building tastes like freedom from a chain he was sure that he’d die in.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for at least a couple of weeks, folks. I'm out of the country and going to be exceedingly busy on a missions trip from the 9th till the 20th, so enjoy this!


	12. When I Heard About His Widowed Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, higher education is expensive. 
> 
> Also, hi! Earlier than I predicted. Please, enjoy!

#  _October, 1999_

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, and it’s been eight goddamn years, and still when overwhelmed, he finds himself looking for bright blue eyes and a heart-shaped face and thin lips twisting with the wickedest sense of humour he’d ever encountered. 

 _Talk to Alyssa,_ his brain suggests.

Not an option. Sweeney had just made that particularly clear.

 _Take a pass_? he'd drawled, grey eyes hard like concrete.  _I don't think so. I know where those kids of yours_ – jerking his chin to Jess and Matt –  _go to school. And you know that if you go to the cops – well, I'd find you before they could even call the D.A._

Why had he let someone close enough for this scenario to come to pass anyway?

Childish laughter spills over from the other side of the ring.

He spins to see Matt pinned beneath Jessica, as she straddles him across the stomach. But her triumph is short-lived as Matty's dog Queen pads up to them and nuzzles Jessica in the chest until she overbalances and falls back off Matty’s chest.

Right. That had been why. Matty’d always been so shy, so smart, he’d never had a prayer of blending in with kids in Hell’s Kitchen. And somehow, a friend had found him anyway.

_Wonder when he’ll figure it out?_

The signs were early, of course. But still, pretty damn obvious, Jack thinks.

_Not that you have that excuse, Murdock._

Well, no. But Brian and Alyssa, they’d been so smart. Carefully inviting him and Matty into their lives, baby step by baby step, until they’d been seamlessly interwoven. Until there’d been a roster for afternoons so everyone’s work schedule worked, until there’d been a beer pressed into his hand in a half-lit garage, until there’d been jokes about disasters with ham, binders full of research, and a recently made bet.

He’s screwed. If he does take the fall, the cycle will just keep going, the threat still hanging over his head, and still hanging over his family. Sweeney's a sadistic bastard. He'll do anything with leverage once he's got it, for something he wants. And if Jack doesn't take the fall, then he'll die. 

He looks over Matt and to Jessica, still giggling on Bernie’s gym mat.

_How do I keep them out of it?_

* * *

 He can’t, not entirely. Still, he can try. And he hates lying, he always has, but the thing is, he’s always been pretty good at it.

“I don’t get it,” Brian says. His tone says: seething with anger. So does his body, for that matter. Jaw, clenched; forehead, furrowed with a truly impressive scowl. He’s never seen Brian this mad. But that makes sense. He’s a patient guy, but you don’t wanna be around him when he snaps. Reminds Jack of his Ma.  
Sometimes, he wonders if there hasn’t been an e-fucking-normous mistake made along the way, and they really were brothers, separated by some freaky series of events.

“I thought you said you wanted _out_ of boxing, Jack.”

“I do,” Jack says, bracing himself mentally even as he straightens from where he’s been leaning against the car.

_Showtime._

“Then _why_ ,” Brian snarls, “are you going _back into the ring?”_

_Because it’s the only way._

Jack sighs, leaning back against the Jeep.

_The secret to every good lie is the truth._

“Who taught you about fixing cars, Brian?” 

 "Don’t change the subject!”

“I’m not. Who taught you?”

“My Dad, who else?”

Jack nods.

_Sorry, Uncle._

“I don’t remember mine. I learned how to fight from my Uncle,” he says. “He was a vet. Vietnam. Made it home. But his brother, my Dad, he didn’t. And it…it broke something in him. He lived with us. Ma was afraid of what would happen to him on his own, and he wasn’t married, no kids. When I was nine, he started teaching me how to fight. He had nightmares. All the time. And when he had ‘em, he and I, we’d go down to Fogwell’s, and beat the shit out of a bag or three.”

He licks his lips. They suddenly feel dry.

“Ma, she always joked about the devil in the Murdock boys. It was how she dealt with it. Humour. But…I’m pretty sure she was right.”

Brian sighs. “So you can’t quit boxing.”

_Yes._

“No,” Jack says. “I can. I just…I need to say goodbye to it properly. One last time. Then I’ll put my gloves in the box. For good. Start a new life.”

Brian sighs. “The last time?”

Jack nods. “The last time.”

_Enough._

Changing the subject would look suspicious, so he lets the silence hang, firmly stuffing the feeling of being little more than cesspool scum to the bottom of his throat.

* * *

It takes him a while to figure out where to hide the notes. He settles on in the second drawer of his bedside table.

 _Just in case,_ he tells himself, but he’s not sure he believes it.

* * *

Sweeney’s smile is thick and oily as Jack wraps his hands. Ed had been bemused, but had agreed to keep Matt and Jess busy until dinner so that he could train, despite it being Jack’s turn on the roster. There’s no way he’s letting Jess – tiny, scarily observant girl that she is – be within 100 goddamn yards of Roscoe Sweeney. Not happening.

“So, we’re agreed,” Sweeney says. “You against Crusher Creel.”

Jack closes his eyes, and finishes wrapping his right hand.

“Agreed,” he tells Sweeney.

The man’s face is triumphant.

Jack lets out a long, slow breath and stalks over to the punching bag, breathing in the smell of old leather, decades of sweat, and the faint tang of blood that hangs in Fogwell’s air.

Surprisingly enough, pounding his fists against the bag while pretending that it’s Sweeney’s raping, murdering, extorting corpse helps ease the bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

Matty’s note is the last to be written. Brian’s and Alyssa’s are written: apologies which he’d carefully blotted the tears from when they’d come so that it wouldn’t blur the ink of the pen, instructions for what to do…in case.

He’s not sure when the _'_ _in case’_ started feeling like certainty, sinking into his bones and skin.

The agonising over what to say lasts until 1:00am the morning of the Monday before the fight, when he takes a swig from the Scotch bottle and growls, _"_ _Fuck it.”_

 _Dear Matty,_ _  
_

_If you’re hearing this, then the odds are I never came home. We both know writing’s not my thing, but you deserve an explanation. For all the things I never talked to you about when we could talk to each other._ _  
_

_So…let’s start at the beginning._ _  
_

_I met your Mom when I was twenty-two. I’d had a win, and I was at the bar celebrating with Lopez and Salvatore. Considering that it was Salvatore’s ass I’d just kicked all over the ring, he was pretty nice about it._ _  
_

_This girl comes up to me, and she orders me – not asks, orders – to buy her a drink. I do as I’m told, we get to talking, and you know the end to the story already. It’s the bits in between I’ve never told you about._ _  
_

_I was surprised as hell when we found out she was pregnant with you. Surprised and terrified and happier than I’d ever been, Matty. From the second they put you in my arms at the hospital, I knew I’d do anything to keep you safe and happy. Do anything so you could have a better life than I did. Be a better man than I was._ _  
_

_This might not make much sense to you now, slugger. I’m going to tell you anyway, so that when you’re old enough, you’ll have the answer in front of you._ _  
_ _Matty, your Mom was sick. Not physically sick, not cold and flu or stomach bug sick. In her mind. Every day, for her, it was like she was trapped in this pit in her head, and she couldn’t do anything. She’d get angry, fast, and she was exhausted the whole time. Your Nana saw the signs. She’d seen it happen to so many women. She wanted Maggie to see a doctor, but Maggie refused. In the end, she left. She didn’t think it was safe for you to be around her._

 _She loved you, Matty. But she was sick._ _  
_

_I love you too. But that’s why I haven’t come home._ _  
_

_When your Mom left, I started throwing fights to make ends meet. I don’t regret it. It’s kept us fed, and with a roof over our heads. But I’d be lying, again, if I said it hasn’t bothered me. Especially when I know that so many of those fights, I could win._ _  
_

_I thought after the settlement money came through, I could quit. Start a normal life. It seems like I’ve pissed off too many people to do it. The thing is, they want to go after all of us. Not just me. You, and Alyssa and Brian, and Jess and Phil._ _  
_

_I can’t let them do that, Matty. I can't let them hurt you. And this is the only way out of it for you I can see._ _  
_

_I love you. I’m so proud of you. I know part of the reason the accident hit you so hard was because you wanted to be a fighter, to be strong like how you always thought I was._ _  
_

_But Matty, here’s the thing. You’re not me._ _  
_

_You’re so much_ _more_ _._  
  
_Love,_  
Dad

_P.S. Hit the books, kid. I'll know. Tell Jess and Phil and Foggy the same, and that Uncle Jack sends his love._

* * *

He doesn’t go to Havisham to make the arrangements, instead biting the bullet of how much the appointment will cost, and going to a lawyer in the Meatpacking District to get the will changed.

It’ll be safer for everyone this way.

The suit still itches, and he feels like Matty, wanting to scratch at irritated skin. They should get that checked, actually. He’s been trying to hide it, but he’s been flinching at certain loud noises, and reacting to soft ones like they’re loud.

“You want Matthew to inherit all of the money from the settlement?” the lawyer asks briskly.

Jack shakes his head. “No. Most of it. But he needs enough for college one day.”

The lawyer hums, tapping at keys on the computer’s keyboard. “Let’s see. He’s an academic boy?”

“Yeah. Loves school.”

“Let’s assume the worst – sorry, poor choice of phrasing – and assume that he will not be only studying a Bachelor’s. About a million would be enough to see him through to a PhD at a top school in the country, plus expenses. Now, do you want to leave the rest of the money in the various investments? And who would you like to manage the portfolio, in the event?”

The words are said so briskly, it’s almost startling. _In the event_.

“Alyssa Jones,” Jack says.

The man looks startled. “Your broker?”

_Hah. Me, with a broker._

“Close enough,” Jack says.

“And you would like guardianship of your child to pass to…?”

Jack names his choice of guardian, and the lawyer nods. “Right. You rent your apartment so no property needs to be assigned, Matt’s personal items will obviously go to him...what would you like to happen to your personal things?”

Jack shrugs. “Aside from my rosary, which’ll go to Matty – I don’t give a shit about the rest.”

_Why should I?_

Again, the brisk nod.

He walks out of the office half an hour later, with a promise of a phone call when the documents are ready to be signed.

* * *

Dad’s been a bit weird tonight. Normally before a fight, he gets a little more impatient, a little more snappy. But tonight, he’d said hello to both Alyssa and Brian by kissing them on the cheek. Matt knows because Brian had laughed and commented about how he must really be looking forward to the last fight, if he was going to kiss not just Alyssa but him as well. He picked up both Jess and Phil when they came out of their rooms, and settled them on one hip each.

“Jack, they’re getting too big for you to pick them up,” Alyssa laughs.

“Am not!” Phil protests indignantly.

“Are too,” Jessica says.

“Hypocrite,” Matt mumbles, because he hasn’t heard her feet hit the floor yet.

“Drama king,” Jess retorts, jumping off. “C’mon, we made pizza.”

“Okay, slugger. You did all your homework?”

Matt nods. “Yep.”

He had, mostly.

There's a pause, and then Alyssa speaks. “I’ll make sure he does it after dinner.”

“What’s up with him?” Jess whispers into his ear. Her hair is tickling Matt’s neck, and her voice is worried.

“I dunno,” Matt whispers back. “He must be excited about the fight.”

“...Maybe.”

* * *

His veins are bubbling, fizzing, happiness spreading through every inch of him, warmth from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes.

“I knew he’d do it,” he tells Jess. “I knew he’d do it.”

“He looks pretty beat up, Matt.”

“Look is overrated,” Matt retorts, unable to keep the grin off his face.

“Over-rated?”

“People think it’s more important than it is.”

“Oh.” Jess settles her head back on his shoulder.

An hour passes before Brian and Alyssa come and put them to bed. Matt settles into Phil’s room – apparently, they’ve decided that they’re getting too old for Matt and Jessica to keep sharing the bed, for some reason – and takes a deep breath. Eavesdropping really isn’t that hard these days.

“Did you try calling the venue?” Alyssa whispers.

“Of course I called the venue!” Brian’s voice is tight with worry. “Nobody picked up. I’m guessing they’re not exactly manning the phone while the next fight is in progress.”

“He’s probably just been saying goodbyes. He’s got, what, thirteen years’ worth of friends to say goodbye too. Right?” Alyssa says. “He’ll be home soon.”

“Right,” Brian says, with a definite tone of relief.

“And we’re forcing him to get a pager after this.”

“Yes. Yes, we absolutely are,” Brian says. “We should get things ready for him, though.”

“The Glenlivet it is.”

“He’s gonna need it. Remember senior year of your undergrad?”

“Yes, although I’d be a little startled if the exact same scenario played out with Jack.”

“Your Dad would have an aneurysm.”

“Please, that’s his standard operating procedure as soon as I enter the room.”

Brian’s soft chuckle, and the sound of–

Matt winces. He _so_ doesn’t need to hear that. The speed at which he tries switching his focus to the sound of Phil’s breathing, and the soft flannel of his pyjamas against his own skin is as fast as he can make it.

* * *

Hands, shaking him awake.

“Matt. Matt, sweetheart, I need you to wake up,” Alyssa’s voice, trembling and thick.

He opens his eyes, and tries to sit up. “Ugh,” he manages. “What time is it?”

“Four. Matt, there’s something you – I need to tell you something,” she says.

Her voice is still thick, and she smells like - salt? Salt. Salt and water. Why?

“Okay?” Matt tries.

She starts to say something, and then her voice breaks midway through the word.

“Alyssa?” Matt asks, chill trickling down his spine. _What the hell happened?_ _Are you okay?_ He extends his hands, feeling for hers, until he finds the cool metal of her wedding ring. “Alyssa. Please? You’re scaring me.”

A deep, shuddering breath. “Oh, _sweetheart_ _.”_ Another deep breath. “Matt, I’m so sorry. Your Dad – he – he’s dead.”

Matt shakes his head. “Nah. Lopez and Salvatore probably dragged him to Josie’s for one last time, and he forgot to call.”

“No, Matt, he’s dead. Brian just got a call from the police station. They identified him from the dental records.”

“You’re lying,” Matt hears himself saying. “You’re lying. There’s – there’s no way – you’re lying.”

Alyssa’s hands, pulling him into a hug, and why are there tears running down his face? Why is his own voice like a shriek in his ears? It can’t be true. It’s not true.

_"You’re lying! ”_

Her hands smooth over his hair, as his body starts to shake.


	13. 2nd November, 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I know nothing of how this situation would be handled IRL.
> 
> Thanks must go to @livingvakariouslythroughyou for all her help with this chapter.

 

They bury Dad on a Saturday, and Brian gives the eulogy. His voice is trembling with pain, shaking as he speaks.

“I first met Jack Murdock five years ago, when I was picking my daughter up from kindergarten. And my first impression of the man was: ‘what happened to him?’ He still had a black eye from a fight, and his knuckles were a mess.”

There’s a ragged silence, where the only sound in the room is his intake of breath. It’s not a big funeral. There’s a few of Nana’s friends; Ed and Anna and Foggy, as well as Brian and Alyssa and Phil and Jess. Lopez and Salvatore are there as well; Matt can smell the blood on their knuckles, still.

_Did you help? Were you part of his death?_

Jessica’s hand had been resting on his shoulder, earlier, and Matt had shaken her off. There’d been a skip in her heartbeat, and he’d heard her breathe in like she does before she speaks, but she hadn’t said anything.

The smell of tears is heavy in the room. “I could never have predicted the importance that Jack would take on in my life. In so many ways, it felt like God had given my brother back to me,” Brian says. “He was steadfast to those he loved; determined beyond belief; the most stubborn man I’ve ever encountered. He loved his mother and son more than anything in the world. And my family was privileged to be loved by him.”

Another pause, and Brian's voice becomes very soft, choking into the microphone. “Jack, it feels like I hardly got the chance to know you. We love you. And we miss you.”

He still can’t breathe right. His stomach hasn’t stopped churning the whole day. He’d thrown up three hours before, Anna's hands steadying his head. 

They’d asked him if he wanted to speak, and he’d shaken his head.

He can’t.

He _can’t_.

He just can’t.

* * *

_Four Days Earlier_

The phone rings at five in the morning.

Anna whimpers, pulling the pillow tighter over her head.

_“Ed.”_

He grabs the phone. “Mmr?” he manages.

“Hello, is this Mr Nelson?”

“Speaking. Who’s this?” he asks.

Anna bends the pillow tighter around her ears. “Mr Nelson, I’m Mr Murdock’s attorney. I’m calling to inform you of his death.”

It takes a while for the pieces to slot together in his mind, and when he does, his jaw slackens.

“Mr Nelson?”

“Wait – Jack?”

“Yes, indee–”

“Jonathan Jack Murdock?” Ed interrupts. “Battlin’ Jack?”

“The very same, now–”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. He was fine when I saw him a couple of days ago–"

“Mr Nelson, I understand that this is a great shock, but I have a lot of calls to make and I need you to _listen_ ,” the lawyer interrupts.

Ed bites down on the urge to keep snapping denials, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Mr Murdock has asked that you and your wife become Matthew’s guardians,” the lawyer says.

Ed’s eyes open.

 _Wait, what?_  

“Say again?”

“It says so, right in his will, and he was of sound mind and body at the time of making the will,” the lawyer says. “If you are willing to be appointed as the Guardian, we’ll have to go to the court, seeing as it’s the legal system that has the authority to appoint a guardian for a child.”

“So who’ll he stay with?” Ed asks. “Where is he right now?”

“At the police station, with Brian and Alyssa Jones,” the lawyer says briskly. “As to who he’ll stay with, I recommend that he stay with you.”

Ed leans against the headboard and says, “ _Fuck_. Alright.”

“So, you’ll accept the guardianship?”

Ed closes his eyes, and thinks of Foggy’s face when he’d come home after meeting Matt, how his eyes had glowed. Dad, I made a friend! Of a steadying hand on his shoulder, passing him a flask and encouraging him, despite the ruins of the man’s own marriage.

“Yeah, I will,” he says.

The Murdock boys deserve nothing less.

He turns to Anna, and shakes her shoulder gently. “Sweetheart, you’ve gotta wake up.”

* * *

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

The words startle Jessica awake. Her neck hurts, her face hurts a bit too; she’d fallen asleep on Matt’s shoulder. The bone of his shoulder presses uncomfortably against her cheek.

“I don’t think he is,” comes Anna’s level voice, in reply to her mother’s.

“He genuinely thinks I’d let some _two-bit mobster_ drive me out of New York City?” Mom whispers. She’s trying to keep her voice down so that – oh. This is definitely something she’s _not_ supposed to overhear.

Jessica closes her eyes and concentrates.

“A guy with a rap sheet longer than he is tall, if the cops could catch him, ‘Lyss. Guys like Roscoe Sweeney don’t fuck around, that’s why Jack did what he did!”

“And he didn’t think to talk to us about it!”

“You already knew he was entangled with the Kitchen Irish. How many ways out of that exist?”

“There _could have been_ a way!” Mom says, her voice slipping out of the whisper, before it slips back in. “There could have been. If he’d just – we would have figured something out. We could have all left. Brian and I would have taken him and Matt with us.”

“Jack Murdock could have no more taken his son out of Hell’s Kitchen than he could have stopped – exhaling,” Anna says. “It would have killed them both. He loved this place. Matt does too.”

“And now he wants me and Brian and Jess and Phil to just _pack up_ and go back to Hartford?” Mom asks. Her voice is – like she can’t believe it’s real. Like it’s the weirdest thing she’s ever heard about, like the gods and goddesses in the latest book that Foggy’s been reading.

Jessica bites down on the urge to cry out at the thought. She’s still trapped in that cold feeling that hit her earlier that night, like ice wrapped around her heart, around her lungs.

She feels Matt’s chest deflate under her head, and knows that he knows that she’s awake.

Instinctively, she lifts her head and gets up in order to curl up tighter in the plastic seat, and re-settle her head on his lap. He’s not talking, and if she talks, it’ll give her away as being wide awake, not just moving in her sleep.

But she doesn't want to go.

 _Please,_ she prays. _Please, please. Don’t make me go. I don’t wanna go._

“He wanted you and your family to be safe,” Anna whispers. “You think I don’t know that Jack would have preferred you and Brian to be raising him? But _not at the expense of your lives._ He was panicked and overwhelmed and this was the best solution he could think of.”

“Well, he can put that solution straight up!–” Mom’s voice cuts off there, and she lets out a long, shuddery breath. “I’m not going anywhere. Brian agrees with me.”

“Okay. Do you – are you going to contest the will?”

Jessica opens her eyes just a crack, and catches a glimpse of her mother’s face. Her eyes have a million red cracks around the iris, her face is pink and puffy, and her fingers keep clenching and unclenching into fists, like–

She blinks back tears.

Like Jack’s always did.

“No,” Mom says.

* * *

Jessica’s fingers curl tighter around the fingers of his free hand. “No. No,” she says, her voice disbelieving. “Mommy, tell them no!”

Alyssa doesn’t say anything.

“Jess, I know this is hard to understand,” Ed begins. “But Jack asked for Matt to stay with us, now that he’s passed.”

He should be saying something. It’s important. Beside him, there’s the sound of Queen’s breathing, steady and patient. She’s in the harness. He’s never had to buckle her in so early in the morning. He’d fumbled the buckles; it’d always been Dad who buckled her into the harness. He’d walked into the morgue with them. Hadn’t believed Alyssa when, through tears and a sharp inhale through her teeth, she’d said, “Oh,  _Jack_."

He’d walked up to the body and gently run his fingers over the face. The same nose, but now broken, again. The same mouth, caked and drenched in blood, sticky scent still clinging to his fingers. The same feel of grazed flesh and burst blood vessels.

He’d tried to open his mouth, and nothing had come out. Just like nothing was coming out now.

He’s so _cold._

“Matt? Matt?”

Hands on his shoulders. Big hands. A voice.

“Matt?”

Ed’s voice.

Matt nods.

“Will you come with us?”

_Dad wanted me to._

Slowly, mechanically, Matt slips his hand out of Jessica’s, and walks forward, into Ed’s arms.

The adults settle things quickly after that, but as they walk out of the station, Anna’s hand resting gently on his shoulder, Matt can hear a girl starting to sob.

* * *

Foggy watches as Matt hangs Queen’s harness up on the coat hook. The Retriever shakes herself happily, golden coat gleaming in the sunlight, and trots over to be petted. Foggy ignores her.

_Matt’s staying with us now that Jack’s dead?_

“Foggy, buddy, come here for a sec,” Mom says, as she hangs her coat on the rack.

Foggy comes over, arms outstretched. Mom drops a kiss on his temple, but her eyes are serious, eyebrows drawn into a frown.

“Foggy,” she says. “Baby, Matt’s not gonna be like he normally is for a really long time. He hasn’t talked at all today.”

Foggy frowns. “I could make him talk,” he says. There’s a dozen ways to make Matt talk: Thurgood Marshall, how to do a haymaker properly – bonus because it comes with a demonstration – and apple pie recipes, piqués, why Braille doesn't have 'w.'

Mom shakes her head urgently, the curls of her Afro bouncing with the motion.  

 _“Foggy_. Listen to me. Matt doesn’t need you to cheer him up, and he doesn’t need you to try and get him to talk. Just...let him know that you’re there, okay? He probably won’t say anything, he probably won’t be _able_ to say thank you, but it’ll mean a lot. Okay?”

Foggy swallows. “Okay.”

Mom presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Thanks, buddy.”

Queen is padding around the apartment, sniffing everything, and Dad is leading Matt into the kitchen, as he turns the hotplate on.

“Okay, guys. I don’t know about you, but I really, really want pancakes right now,” Dad says.

Matt doesn’t react. He doesn’t say anything, just nods. But Foggy’s not sure if that’s a “yeah, I want pancakes” nod or a “yeah, yeah” nod.

Dad’s eyes close briefly, his mouth parting, and he takes a deep breath, before opening his eyes again and forcing a smile.

“Pancakes sound good,” Foggy says.

He leans over and squeezes Matt’s shoulder, the way Matt does when Foggy’s sad.

His expression doesn’t change at all, but Matt’s hand comes over his hand and covers it quickly, for a second, two. Then it drops again.

Foggy pats Queen instead, and blinks back tears.

_Can’t cry yet. Gotta be brave for Matt.  
_

* * *

“We found a note,” Anna says, as she sits down on the bed next to him. It’s a bunk bed; Ed and Anna had teased each other as they’d put it together on the weekend, making Matt and Foggy hold the nails and bolts. “When we were packing everything up.”

 _Everything_. All the things in his old apartment.

She presses something into his hand. “Jack’s rosary. He wanted you to have it. And – it’s very clear that he wanted someone to read this to you.”

Matt nods.

There’s an awkward pause, before Anna lets out a sigh. “Right, I still need to get good at this. Matt, may I read it to you?”

He nods again.

He very quickly wishes that he hadn’t.

The words are read in Anna’s melodic alto, which sounds wrong, because they’re his _Dad’s_ words, and the memories are tantalising: the blue of his Dad’s eyes, his smell of sweat and blood, and beneath that, the sounds of him humming “Back in Black” under his breath.

Anna’s breath hitches, and the knowledge drips into his mind, like water dripping down his neck, cold. The air _doesn’t_ smell like sweat or blood. It smells like sawdust, and the iron of nails and hammers. The Nelsons’ place. _His_ place, or so it’s supposed to be. But even though they mean it, it still feels hollow.

“'Matty, you’re not me,'” she reads, softly. “'You’re so much _more_. Love, Dad.'”

He hears her fingers trailing over the paper. “You should keep this, Matt.”

He wants to snarl, wants to lose his temper, wants to say: _Why? It’s not like it matters anymore. He’s gone. Who gives a shit?_

He doesn’t, but only because he can’t.

Her arm slides around his shoulder and she drops a kiss on the top of his head. “I’m going to put it in a plastic sleeve, in the box on the bottom shelf of the book case. You remember where the book-case is?”

He points to his three o’clock, and then holds up five fingers. _Five paces away._

“Good. That’s good, Matt.” She drops another kiss on the top of his head, and takes another breath. Hesitating about what to say. Treating him like glass, again. In a way, it doesn’t grate like it did after the accident. He hated being seen as weak then, but now – now he feels weak. “It’s – it _is_ going to get better, Matt. I know it doesn’t seem like it, and it never goes away, it’s not that you’re going to forget your Dad. But – your life doesn’t have to end here.”

_Really? Because it kinda feels like it._

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Anna says, her voice soft.

Matt nods, and runs his fingers along the rosary beads.  
  
_Why did you do it, Dad?_

The answer is stark, staring obvious. It had been right there in the note.

Hah. Even a blind boy can see it.

 _I can't let them do that,_   _Matty._

 _This is_ my _fault._

* * *

He can hear Foggy crying. He can feel the silent tears sliding down Jessica’s cheeks.

_What’s wrong with me?_

His face is dry.

All there is, is the sinking sensation in his stomach.

_This is my fault._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo, boy. So, that just happened. 
> 
> To anyone who's confused as to Jessica's conduct: Matt is her constant, and losing Jack has obviously thrown her world into a tailspin. Hence why she is the way she is at the police station. 
> 
> *hauls the shield into place* Okay. Comment at will.


	14. Fight Like It's Going Outta Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Stick, stage right.
> 
> Exit Stick, stage left, pursued by Emotions™.
> 
> And, seeing as Matt's sun doesn't rise and set by him in this AU, more of the grieving process. 
> 
> Content warning: profanity, and a complicated child. Also, Quill trying to write sensory overload.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Ugggh, man, this one took a long time. Sorry, guys. First there was writer’s block, and then there was, well, college. Uni, I mean. So, sorry it took so long.
> 
> Ah, Stick. You’re not even close to a good man, but I take a slightly more charitable view of you than some.
> 
> You still fucked up, though.

The rim of the toilet seat is cool under his fingers. He’s been in a haze, and he doesn’t know for how long. The world won’t _stop_.

His shirt is burning against his skin, the scent of his own shampoo and the air freshener and Anna’s perfume and cosmetics, and the iron and steel and canvas smells aren’t helping at all, there’s a cat meowing a block away–

“Oh, no, sir, you _really_ don’t want a flathead for that–”

“Wait, she did _what_?”

“I don’t care who started it, you clean this up! And if anyone starts it again, I’ll finish it!”

– someone a block away humming off-key, _so_ off key, it’s painful–

A rapid thunder of footsteps down the street, kids shouting, and he retches again into the toilet.

He leans his head on his arm. He can feel himself trembling, hear the door being unlocked as Anna steps in.

She sighs. “It’s happened again, huh?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Anna steps closer, her hand combing through his hair. Matt leans into the touch. He still can’t seem to connect his mouth to his brain, but he can at least show her what he feels. _Stay._

Anna sits with him as he keeps retching into the toilet, taking his pulse, and feeling his forehead in the intermittent minutes.

“You don’t have a fever, buddy, and you aren’t showing symptoms of flu, or of a stomach bug. So what’s going on? What’s with the migraines?”

Matt shakes his head, slowly, gingerly. How does he even explain it? It’s all too loud, too many smells, too many noises, too _much_ , like his head is going to explode. He’s honestly surprised his skull is still in one piece.

“I dunno,” he says.

Anna sighs. “Maybe I should try sneaking you in, getting you an MRI.”

Matt shakes his head, faster, and immediately regrets it, as his head swims. “No. Not back to the hospital. Anna, _please_.”

“Okay, okay. Easy, Matt. Okay.”

A pause.

“I’m gonna get up, make you some tea to help with the nausea, and then we’re going to figure this out,” Anna says.

* * *

“I can take it from here,” a man’s voice says, as Matt sits on the table in the living room, brushing his fingers over the next chapter of the book they’re reading for English.

“I’ll come with you,” Anna says.

“You won’t do him any favours by hovering, Mrs Nelson.” The voice is gruff, with a note of frustration underneath it.

“I will take damn good care of the child whose care I’ve been entrusted with, though,” Anna says, steel in her voice.

“What do you say, Matt?” the voice asks.

Matt looks up, and tries to triangulate the voice.

_Who are you? Where are you?_

A strange smell – something woodsy? He smells like a _park_ , he smells like mustard and pickles and hot dogs, and – no, that’s the smell of steel from the _hardware_ store, it’s gotta be, no way the guy smells like it, why would he be carrying around steel?

“You want her to come with you?”

There’s a faint note of derision to the man’s voice that Matt _really_ doesn’t like. It reminds him of the sound he’d heard in Mr Mason’s voice, when he’d overheard a conversation between the teachers in the staff room, talking about how Lisa zoned out in class a lot. It makes his fingers itch to clenched into fists.

So he nods.

_If you can’t beat on ‘em, thwart ‘em._

“I’ll get my coat,” Anna says. “Matt, c’mon, we’ll put Queen in the harness.”

Matt whistles the notes, and hears Queen’s claws clacking on the hardwood floor as she comes.

Buckling the harness comes easier now. At least once a day, Anna or Ed will decide that it’s time for a walk, and chivvy Matt and Foggy into their coats. Foggy whines about it, but Matt can hear the happy rhythm of his heart whenever the call of “Coats on, boys! Time to take a walk!” echoes through the apartment.

_So where are we going?_

“So what training do you have in mind for him, Mr Madison?”

“It mostly involves training his perceptive ability of the outside world,” the man says. “How to prioritise and sort through sensory information now that his sight is gone.”

“Did you learn from experience?” Anna’s voice is blunt, harsh.

“I was born blind. I’ve never lived any other way,” the man says. “We’re going to focus on being able to identify people, triangulating objects in space. Enough to cultivate a basic awareness of where objects are in a room.”

“How is that different from the navigation training he’s already done with his O.T?” Anna asks.

“He won’t need to count by the time I’m done with him,” Mr Madison says bluntly. “And if something should happen to that dog of his? He’d still be able to get around.”

“You use a cane, Mr Madison.”

The rhythm of Queen’s rapid breathing forms a counterpoint to the razor edge of Anna’s voice.

“I do,” Mr Madison admits. “But I’d be able to get around even without it. It’s mostly a – whadduya call it – a comfort thing.”

The words come out stilted, like he hates the admission.

“Alright, then. Let’s give this a road test,” Anna says.

By the time Mr Madison’s able to tell that the guy handing them their hot dog actually spent the morning gardening – which is true, Matt can smell the dirt on his fingers – and navigates the park perfectly, when he swears he’s never been to it in his life, Anna heaves a sigh.

“Okay. Matt, what do you think?”

“Would I be able to dance better? If I learned to do it?”

_Would the pain stop? Will I stop throwing up every two days?_

A bark of laughter from Mr Madison. “Kid, by the time I’m through with you, you’ll be back to doing the Macarena.”

Matt wrinkles his nose. “I don’t do the Macarena. I do ballet.”

“Not for long,” Anna says. “Mrs Callahan’s talking about switching to ballroom.”

Matt grimaces. “Foggy and I are the only boys in the class.”

“The tall girls can lead too,” Anna says, rubbing his back.

* * *

The lessons with Mr Madison happen after school on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. He’d tried to push for Wednesday and Friday as well, but Anna had held firm: Wednesdays were for grief counselling, and Friday was for ballet.

“Get up,” Mr Madison says.

It takes everything he’s got to take another breath. It’s harder than ballet, it’s harder than he ever imagined boxing could be. His shirt is clinging to his skin from sweat; the gym mat is barely enough to cushion the fall. He gasps.

“Get up.”

There’s no arguing with that voice. It won’t be amused by his sass. Well, no, that’s not accurate; it’ll be a little amused, but it’ll only show in the heartbeat. It won’t actually relent in pronouncing his sentence.

 

* * *

“I think it’s my fault,” Matt blurts out to Emily one day.

They’d just been talking about his knitting. He’s stopped. Hasn’t felt like it, not since Dad died.

The last thing he’d been working on had been a beanie for him. He’d always said that his hands were fine in winter, but his ears always ended up freezing.

“That your father died?” she asks.

“Yeah. He, uh, he left a note,” Matt says, and he can hear his voice thickening as he speaks, feel the tears springing to his eyes. “He said – people were going to hurt us, and he couldn’t let that happen, so he – just let them hurt _him._ Like some kind of _Beauty and the Beast_ shit.”

Emily’s tone is a little confused. “I’m not sure I understand the comparison, Matt.”

“Belle,” he explains impatiently. “She goes to the Beast’s castle, so that her Dad can go free.”

“Ah. So, your Dad lays down his life so that you don’t get hurt. And you think that it makes it your fault that he died?” Emily asks gently.

“Isn’t it?” Matt asks her.

There’s a soft rustle. “I’m shaking my head–” oh, that must have been her hair. “Matt. Matt, you have to realise this. There is a world of difference between dying because of someone, and dying _for_ someone. I die _because_ someone put poison in my coffee– don’t laugh, I was reading an Agatha Christie last night – or I die _because_ I think somebody is worth my life.”

“I didn’t want him to think that!”

“Of course you didn’t. But he’s your father. And you don’t get to put limits on how much he loved you, Matt,” Emily’s voice is gentle.

“I – I’m _mad_ at him. I hate him,” Matt says, as the tears trickle down his face, shit, he’s _crying_ , this is dumb, this is _so_ dumb, what the hell would Stick say?

“No, no, you don’t,” Emily says, her voice still that gentle tone, she sounds like Alyssa whenever one of them skinned their knees. “You’re mad at him because you loved him, didn’t you? Because you wanted him to come home.” 

She reaches across the desk, one warm hand wrapping over his. “He was proud of you to the end, Matt. I’m pretty good at reading people. And I’ve never seen a father who loved his son more than Jack loved you.”

“ _I hate him!”_

“Do you?”

The question is the last thing that gets said in the therapy session for a while. Matt can’t really find his voice after that.

* * *

“Your mind rules your body,” Stick – apparently he’d gotten bored of being called Mr Madison, he can’t be named Stick, who the hell names their kid _Stick?_ – tells him bluntly. “Remember that, kid. It’ll save you a shit-ton of trouble later on.”

_Right. Which is why I can just imagine my way out of being blind._

He said as much, and ended up with Stick’s cane being laid across his throat.

“Did I ask you? No. You _pick_ what information to focus on. Do it often enough, and long enough, and you’ll start sensing the world until you can sense more than a sighted person can tell. But you gotta start with the basics.”

Stick teaches him how to listen to the heartbeats. How to read them, like his fingers brushing across the Braille of his textbooks. It takes practise, but it sounds like it’d be kinda cool. It takes a breath and learning to fall a little deeper into the rhythm, until he learns that the smile in Anna’s voice can hide a sad _putter-putter_ sometimes after she comes out of the bathroom, until he learns that Foggy’s heartbeat goes fast one way when he’s angry and another way when he’s excited, like when Ed is teaching them how to fix the sink that week-end.

“No, Matt,” Ed says, reaching for his hand. “Wrong wrench, buddy. This is the one you want.”

He fits it around the groove. “Like this?” 

“Exactly like that,” Ed says, and Matt can’t quite stop himself from smiling.

Later that night, as Foggy climbs the ladder to his bunk, there’s a soft whisper.

“Matt? You awake?”

“Mmmph.”

Stick’s been teaching him to quiet down; how to slowly filter through the morass of information until there is the rhythm of Anna’s breathing, Ed’s snoring, and Foggy’s tossing and turning before his own snores begin. It takes a while some nights, where the memories of his Dad’s smell and hugs and voice and eyes press on him so thick it’s almost crushing.

Those nights, he reaches for his rosary. It doesn’t bring Dad back, but it’s something to hold onto.

Now, though, this interruption is unscheduled.

“...It was good to see you smile.”

The words are hesitant, and Matt knows each of them was chosen with care. That’s what Foggy _does_ , these days.

But he still hasn’t got a _clue_ what to say to that.

“It was fun,” he says. It’s lame, but he can’t really think of anything else.

“Even when we got drenched?”

That had happened when he’d hit the wrong pipe, and Matt winces at the memory.

“Well...yeah,” he says.

Foggy starts giggling, and Matt smiles too.

He’s a little bit grateful for the snoring that night. It’s still an awful sound, but...it _does_ mean that Foggy’s right there.

* * *

The next day is Sunday, and the buzzer goes off at ten. Matt gets up from his chair, and buckles Queen into the harness, while Foggy runs downstairs to get the door.

Four heartbeats. He knows who it is already.

“I still can’t believe you’re wearing a _dress_ ,” Phil tells Jessica. “It’s so...girly.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a girl!” she shoots back.

Reflexively, Matt straightens the hem of his shirt. From the feel of it, it was one of his white ones.

“You ready, buddy?” Anna asks him.

Matt nods, touching the pocket where his rosary is. The Braille Bible is too heavy for him to take to Mass, and he’s not sure he _wants_ it. He can’t forget that Dad was sitting right next to him when he got it.

She kisses the top of his head, and Matt doesn’t shy away from it like he had the first few days when he brought them home. It starts to feel...okay. She’s not Mom, nor Alyssa, but...it’s Anna. She’s helped take care of him since he was seven. That’s three years now. Just under a third of his life.

“Matt!”

Jessica’s voice, as she comes into the hallway. She doesn’t even wait, already running across the apartment until her arms around him, her hair is tickling his nose, and her chin is on his shoulder. She smells like honey shampoo and paper and metal. Moving slowly, Matt reaches out for her left wrist and finds a couple of bangles there.

“Nice.”

“How’d you know they were there?”

“Heard ‘em.”

Jessica huffs a laugh. “Know-it-all.”

“Nah. That’s your job,” he smirks at her.

She laughs and he whistles for Queen, clipping her lead to the harness as she trots over, her claws clicking on the hardwood of the floor. They’re gonna have to clip her nails soon. “Alright. I’m ready.”

The walk to Saint Agnes takes a little while, but the Jones’ don’t bother owning a car, for obvious reasons. It’s Sunday morning, but the sound of New York traffic is alive and well. Brian talks throughout the walk. How was ballet on Friday? And what have they been learning that week?

Matt shrugs. “We learned how to write a report on Thursday. That was okay.”

“And Emily?”

Matt sighs. “I’m fine, Brian. Really.”

“I was just asking how she is, that’s all,” Brian protests.

_Right._

Time to change the subject. Jessica was quiet, her heartbeat steady, but Phil’s...

“Hey, Phil, how’s soccer going?”

“We won the game yesterday!” Phil says, and _wow_ , okay, he’s almost vibrating. “I wanted to tell you about it, but Dad said–”

He abruptly stops talking, and Brian sighs. “I was a bit worried for you, Matt.”

“Don’t be.”

“Can’t help it, kid. You’re like my nephew. I’d always worry about you. It’d be like telling me not to worry about Jess or Phil.”

Brian’s words are spoken gently, and Matt finds himself blinking behind his sunglasses way more than he would have through any of Stick’s lectures.

_Matty, you’re not me._

_I hate you_ , he tells the memory of his father’s voice, but it doesn’t sound quite as convincing as it did a couple of days ago.

* * *

“Get _up_ , kid,” Stick says. “I don’t have all day.”

He’s in a chokehold, he’s gotta get out, _how_ does he get out, his sunglasses are somewhere on the other side of the room, they’d fallen into the mat with a muted thud–

“C’mon, kid. Am I just wasting my time here?”

_Fuck you._

He doesn’t realise he’s said it aloud until Stick chuckles. “Big mouth you’ve got. You’re pissed? Then _get out of the hold_.”

He squirms, thrashes, and Stick releases him into the mat. “C’mon. Show me I’m not wasting my time.”

_Fuck you._

He moves, striking at the groin, kicking at Stick’s knees, yanking his shirt-collar down because he is going to _punch him in the face_ , it’s like there’s something beyond him moving through his veins, is this how Dad felt in the ring? Sheer rage that made him want to hear bone dislocate and fracture and feel cartilage and tissue crumble?

He ends up flat on his back, and Stick’s not even winded, but there’s a chuckle in his voice.

“Better.”

* * *

Eventually, Matt can fall asleep in ten minutes. The sensory overload never happens again to the point where he’s curled up miserably around the toilet; it gets to the point where a few well-placed essential oils bottles and noise-cancelling earphones help with most of it.

“You’re really a lot better,” Anna says, a few weeks after they’d first met with Stick. Still Mr Madison to her, though. “Who knows? You might even make it through Christmas.”

She says it as she’s finger combing his hair. Phil and Jessica are over in a rare sleep-over and he senses Jessica’s nod. The feeling of the little motions is hard, but as Stick points out, it’s not as hard as being stabbed is when you thought you’d be punched.

“I can’t wait,” Phil says. “We’ll get to see Grampa again. He's coming to stay with us.”

“What about your Nana?” Foggy asks.

“She’s sick,” Matt supplies.

Jessica nods again. “We visit her sometimes. She recognises Phil and Mom and me. And Dad, too. And she knits.”

“She knits?” This was new.

“Yeah. You should come too, one day.”

“Not at Christmas,” Anna says. “The Nelsons always have a huge party at Christmas.”

Matt swallows. “A huge party?”

“Yep. We drive out to Ed’s cousins in Levittown now. They’re the only one who have room for all of Ed’s siblings and all of _their_ kids.”

“...how many relatives do I have now?” Matt whispers to Foggy.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re blind, you don’t have to act like you recognise their faces.”

“Foggy!” Anna says.

“Well, he _doesn’t!”_

Matt can’t stop a laugh from bursting out of him, and then another, and another. It’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week. Then Jessica starts laughing too, giggles that are a bit muffled by her hand, but not by much, and then Foggy as well.

_God, if you’re listening...thanks._

He’s still pissed at his Dad. Father Martinez thinks it’s normal. That fathers and sons are always complicated. But – he’s not alone.

And that helps, a bit.

_I should thank them._

That night, he asks Anna what her favourite colour is, and then spends an hour and a half trying to find his knitting needles.

* * *

He’s not sure his logic for putting Stick on the “list of people to thank” would hold up in court, but it can’t hurt, he figures. And yeah, Stick talks a lot about controlling your feelings, but he’d asked Anna and Brian _and_ Father Martinez, and their responses had been “The teacher who said that should have been _fired_ , that’s a load of garbage–” (Father Martinez, sounding as angry as he’s ever heard the old man) and "Who said that bullshit to you? Yes, Foggy, I know, in five minutes, baby, I don’t give a _damn_ about the swear jar right now–” (Anna's.) And, well, majority rules.

“Stick?” he says, at the end of another training session. By the end of this, he might actually be able to throw a punch.

“Mm?”

“Thanks,” Matt says, taking the gift out of his pocket. “I’ve got something for you. Just. The wrapper, from when we got hot dogs. It’s a bracelet now. I’m good at making things.”

Stick doesn’t confirm that or deny it. Just crumples it in his fist.

Matt flinches. That...had hurt a lot more than he’d thought it would. Like getting his first shot.

“Your training is over. I can’t help you anymore,” Stick says grimly. “I’ll tell your foster mother.”

“Wait,” Matt pleads, because this, fighting like this, it’s the only way he can do something like what his Dad did, only way he can recall the memories of sweat-imbued leather bags and mats. “Don’t – don’t do this–”

“You’re not cut out for this, kid,” Stick says, and then he walks out of the gym room.

Matt’s not even conscious of whistling for Queen. He just knows he hears the thunder of her paws, and he buries his face in her fur as she whines into his shoulder.

When he walks home, he feels the concern in Anna’s gaze. “Are you okay? You look a little– tired.”

 _You’ve been crying_.

Matt shrugs, pastes on a smile. “Yeah, Mr Madison was fun.” He’s amazed his pants haven’t caught on fire with the magnitude of that lie.

“Hey, Anna?”

“Yeah, Matt?”

He swallows.

_You’re not cut out for this, kid._

The same message that people had given him in ballet. At school, in the surprise in the teacher’s voice whenever the _blind_ kid put his hand up. Over and over again.

“Yeah. There’s a judo club at school, right? Could I sign up?”

“Let me think about it over the Christmas break, and we’ll talk about it,” Anna offers. “Ed and I’ll need time to think about it.”

Matt nods. “That’s fair.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she says, kissing him on top of his head. “Go put Queen’s dinner out. I’ll make hot chocolate.”

She flicks on the CD player, and Glenn Miller fills the air.


	15. Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: The Joneses’ fall apart, and put things back together. One shard at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Yeah, definitely more vignette-y here than anywhere else.  
> Not sure if it’s effective or not, but I’m making the most of midsem break whilst it lasts.  
> (Readings and classes and assessments start again tomorrow. Dammit.)

She’s cold.

 _Ten seconds at a time,_ Father Martinez had said, his brow furrowed with weariness. His collar had been strange; pitch black against the pale brown of his skin, except for the white square in the middle. She hadn’t seen a collar like that before. Dad had said that it was because he was a priest.

_Like your Dad?_

_No, baby, my Dad wasn’t a priest. Just a missionary._

She hadn’t understood the difference. A priest told people about God, and so did a missionary.

“For we know that our Redeemer lives, and that He shall stand upon the earth,” Father Martinez says. “Gracious Lord, into Your hands, we commit your son, Jonathan Murdock.”

 _His name was Jack,_ she wants to scream. No-one ever called him Jonathan, he was _Jack_ , he was her friend, he called her a little grease monkey and would say that when she grew up, she could be his mechanic. She would ask him to teach her how to fight and he’d always wink and say she was too pretty, but add in a quieter tone that if she was ever in trouble to jab her knee really hard and fast _here_ and _here_ and then run like hell. She’d grinned at him and kissed his cheek and whispered, _thanks, Jack._

Matt’s quiet. Gone completely quiet. Earlier, she’d tried putting her hand on his shoulder, only for it to be shrugged off.

 _Don’t do this_ , she pleads with him silently. _Don’t do this._

He can’t hear it. He’s not even crying. There are none of the tears she can feel on her cheeks trickling down his face. His sunglasses are in place; his mouth is set. She’d never understood the word ‘stone-faced’ until now.

Foggy’s crying. Little hitches and gasps of breath, that she can hear coming from her own mouth as well.

Matt’s dry-eyed, and she feels a sudden burst of anger at him. Doesn’t he care at _all_?

Her Dad steps into the aisle to pick up the coffin. Ed does too. So do a couple of the guys she recognises from Fogwell’s. She’d have to ask Matt for their names, though, and she can’t do that. Not now.

They carry it to the graveside, and lower it in. She doesn’t understand why they need a coffin, but one look at her Dad’s face convinces her not to ask.

He looks like hell. Pale, eyes with dark circles underneath them, his jaw clenched. Mom doesn’t look much better, as she takes his hand and kisses it briefly, gently. Dad’s smile to her is watery, and her mascara has smudged from tears.

“Gracious Lord, we thank you for our brother,” Father Martinez says. “And we commend Him to your care, and to his rest.”

_He doesn’t get to rest now! Matt needs him! Dad needs him! Mom needs you, Jack!_

More tears burning at her eyes, a lump in her throat as she faces the horrifying truth.

_Jack, don’t do this. Don’t do this. I need you. Come back, please?_

But he’s not coming back. Not now. Maybe the Father’s right, and she’ll see him again, but her life stretches before her, years upon years without seeing Jack’s blue eyes, without his soft laugh and his rough hands and the sound of her nickname in his voice.

She buries her face in her hands, a sob in her throat at the thought.

“Jess. Jessica,” Anna says softly. She crouches beside Jessica. “Do you want to say something to Jack?”

Jessica wipes at her eyes, but the tears are still flowing.

“He – he’s _dead_ ,” she says, shaky.

“Yeah,” Anna admits with a nod. “But I bet you that he’s still listening.”

She swallows, and nods, walking as close to the edge as she can, and sitting. It’s freezing cold.

“You had to go and pick _November_ ,” she says, softly. “You _had_ to go and die in November.”

She’s surprised Matt doesn’t burst out in defence of his Dad. She knows he can hear her.

_Or maybe he can’t right now._

“Why’d you do it?” she whispers. “Why? We needed you. We needed you _alive_. Where there’s life, there’s hope. That’s what Dad kept telling you, after the accident. What the _hell_ , Uncle Jack?”

There’s no response. She doesn’t even feel better.

She stands. “I give up,” she tells the grave.

* * *

He clings to her like his life depends on it, when they’re alone in their room. And maybe it does.

It’s happened _again_. His family, dead and broken; the man who’d become a brother to him taken from him.

It feels like a strange role reversal. It’s usually her crying into his shirt when it gets too much, not him burying his face in her hair and inhaling like it’s oxygen. It’s still soft as it was when he met her years ago, still tickles his nose.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. The kids are in bed, and the wake is over, and God, he can’t get Matt’s face out of his mind, the blank expression on those features still soft with puppy fat, like he’d just _checked out_ , that was how much pain he was in.

He tilts her chin up and kisses her, trying to bury the pain, and she kisses back. _I’m here, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere._

The kiss tastes like salt, and tears, even as he unzips her.

* * *

Jessica’s pissed, Alyssa realises, as the fog of _what the fuck, Jack_ slowly clears. She’s yelling when they ask her to clear the table one night when she goes to put on _Mulan_ , screaming: “It’s _not fair!”_

Brian loses it. Like father, like daughter, a distant part of her brain quips. “ _Jessica!”_

Jessica clenches her fists, angry tears in her eyes, as she picks up the plates. Alyssa studies her as Jessica grabs the salt, the casserole and sets them on the kitchen counter.

_Did something happen at school today?_

Alyssa grabs Brian’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “Let me talk to her?”

He sighs, and nods. “Yeah, okay.”

She waits until Jessica’s cleared all of the glasses from the table, and stalks into her room, slamming the door. She’s not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation.

She knocks on the door. “Jess?”

“Go away,” the response comes, but there doesn’t seem to be a lot of conviction behind it.

Alyssa opens the door, and takes a look. There’s her daughter, curled up on the bed. Her hair is greasy; when did she last wash it?

She walks into the room and sits on the bed.

“Hi,” Alyssa offers.

There’s no response.

Alyssa sighs. “Jess, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you,” Alyssa says.

“ _Mom!_ ”

“Jessica.”

Her daughter remains stubbornly silent. Alyssa forces herself to start counting. _C’mon, Jessie._

She’s reached one hundred and twenty when Jessica speaks.

“It’s not fair. I – he – he was _family._ ”

Out of the mouths of babes, she thinks.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” she says, drawing her daughter into her lap.

Jessica sobs for a long, long time.

* * *

 

“Why didn’t Matt come and live with us, though?” Phil asks him, as he puts him to bed.

Brian kisses the top of his head, and tries to keep his face in its smile. “Well, Jack was worried that you wouldn’t like Queen living with you all the time.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “ _Dad_.”

“I mean, you and she didn’t exactly get along well the first time you met. If I remember, you tried biting her.”

An exaggeration. Phil had tried barking at Queen, on Jessica’s mischievous hint that in order to get over his fear of dogs, he had to _become_ one. Phil had, much to Matt’s poorly-suppressed delight, bought it, hook, line and sinker.

“ _Daddy.”_

Brian swallows. His son’s eyes are dark, huge and enormous. “You miss him, huh?”

Phil nods, his eyes shimmering with tears.

Brian presses a kiss to Phil’s forehead. “Let’s see what I can do. Now, time for the story.” He grabs the Children’s Bible on the bedside table, and starts reading. The story of Deborah. Lots of blood and guts – well, heads, anyway – and a good battle. Perfect. But it gives him an idea, as he turns on the night light and walks out of the room.

He reaches for the handset. “Hey, Ed? Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I’ve got an idea.”

* * *

“But we’re not Catholic,” Jessica points out, that Sunday morning, as they rifle through her closet for a suitable dress. She’s already picked out her shoes: high tops.

Brian nods. “Nope.” He’s raised his kids according to the principles taught him by his stolid, solid Wesleyan Methodist father.

“So why are we going to Mass?”

“Because Matt’s going to go to Mass as well,” Brian says. The doctrinal differences don’t bother him so much. It’s the same God.

He’s not sure what he was expecting. For Jessica to smile, at least. But instead, she scowls, looking down at her cereal. “So what?” she mumbles.

Brian blinks. He’d thought Alyssa was worrying over something that would fix itself, but now, he thinks he understands.

“You do realise I’m talking about Matt Murdock, right?” he prompts her. “Your best friend? About so tall–” he sticks his hand out to his lowest rib – “you adopted him after your first week of kindergarten…”

 _You occasionally dream about marrying him_ , he’d add, if he were in a more teasing mood. He hadn’t missed the way Jessica’s eyes had drifted to Matt a couple of times at Ed and Anna’s wedding, regarding him almost contemplatively. But now is  _absolutely_ not the right moment for that.

Jessica sniffs. “He barely talks anymore. He doesn’t come to ballet anymore.”

 _Ah_ , there it is. He rests a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey. It’s Matt we’re talking about. You’re his favourite, Jessica.”

She tilts her head, surprise flashing in those enormous hazel eyes. “But why–”

“Do you remember when my Dad died?” Brian asks her.

She frowns, waggling her hand, thumb up, pinky up, thumb up again. _I think so?_

“I was sad for a really long time after,” he tells her. “A _really_ long time. It felt like part of my heart had been ripped out. And if I hadn’t had you and Phil to take care of, I probably would have reacted exactly like Matt is reacting now. Everybody deals with losing people differently, Jessica. Some people get angry.” He kisses the top of her head, and she flushes. Good. So she gets that now. “Some people? They get quiet.”

Jessica bites her lip. “I don’t want to lose him too,” she confides, in a very quiet voice, and internally, Brian reels with terror at the worry in that childish face, the innocence, the _trust_ she has in him.

He kisses the top of her head. “If you’re meant to keep him, he’ll find his way back to you,” he says.

He’s not sure if it’s the right thing to say, but it’s the best he can do at the moment. He looks at Jessica’s pinkest, frilliest dress, bought by Alyssa’s Dad in a moment of whimsy. “I’m guessing we’re not going with that one?”

Jessica wrinkles her nose, and grabs the lavender knee-length dress beside it. Much fewer frills. Brian even persuades her to put on a couple of bangles that they’d found in a dollar store back in October, when searching for a Halloween costume.

She still lights up when they walk into the Nelsons’ apartment and she sees him, and Matt leans into the hug that she wraps him in. His hand drifts to the wrist with the bangles and toys with them, flicking at them.

“Nice.”

“How’d you know they were there?” A hint of pleasure in Jessica’s voice, that he’d paid attention.

“I heard ‘em.”

“Know-it-all,” she says, and Brian can hear the faint hint of a giggle in her voice.

“Nah. That’s your job,” Matt smirks at her, and Brian’s breath catches in his throat. _God damn. He’s actually starting to recover._

And Jessica, Jessica _laughs_ , and Brian sighs in relief. Ed shoots him a curious look, which Brian ignores. He doesn’t have the energy to explain right now.

It’s a startling enough realisation to know that they’re going to make it through this.


	16. Christmas, 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly What It Says on the Tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ho, I'm back and semester's over! No promises for when the next one's going to be up, though. I have a two-week intensive course from the 2nd of July till the 16th, during which I will eat, sleep and breathe my classes. Plus I have my driving test on the 22nd of June, and I am nervous AF about it. This means you'll either get lots of story or very little, depending on how my work ethic is going. 
> 
> In other news, business as usual. On with the fic!

By December 23rd, Matt’s not sure his hands will ever be the same again. The skin on his fingers where the needles are held have developed a hardness to them, and his fingers even _smell_ like yarn now. But the important thing is that the presents are _done_ : a blue beanie for Foggy, a purple one for Jessica and a green one for Phil. Anna had helped him sort out the yarn colours. He’d already given Ed his socks and Anna her mittens. The last of his allowance had been spent on a card for Alyssa and Brian that he’d picked out with Jessica’s help. Foggy would almost certainly have decided that it represented the perfect chance with a prank, and that was _not_ going to happen on Matt’s watch.

He smiles as he reaches into his backpack for the presents, setting them under the tree near the parcels he can sense there. Wrapping presents wasn’t something he could really do all that well anymore, so paper bags pilfered from the hardware store would have to do.

They’re at the Jones’ apartment for dinner: Ed and Anna, Matt and Foggy, Jessica and Phil and Brian and Alyssa, and sounding odd in all of this, Jessica’s grandfather.

“You must be Matthew,” the man says, extending a hand. Matt plays dumb, smiling at him as Alyssa nudges him. He can’t quite stop an ‘oh’ of realisation, as he withdraws it.

Dammit. Now Matt has to feign ignorance of that too. He can’t even smirk at the other man’s mistake.

“That’s me,” he says. “And you must be Jessica’s Grandpa.”

The man chuckles, composure apparently restored. “Call me Ray, please.”

Matt nods. “Matt.” He glances to where he can smell Jessica’s honey shampoo. “It’s good to meet you.”

“You, too.”

“ _Maaaatt_ ,” he hears at his left. Phil. “C’mon! I wanna show you my magic tricks.”

He sighs. _Every time, this one._ “Phil, I can’t see the card surfaces,” Matt reminds him. It’s the biggest problem with Phil’s newfound interest in magic tricks.

“You can see this one,” Phil says with a grin. There’s a pause, and then Matt feels something cold behind his ear. Phil’s fingers close over the object delicately and then he tosses it up and down. “Tada! Nickel behind your ear. How on earth did it get there?”

Matt snorts a laugh. He can’t help it. “Okay, fine, you win this round,” he says.

“Alright, enough, you two,” Alyssa says. “Go on. The table still needs to be set.”

Matt sighs, but doesn’t argue.

Phil, on the other hand…

“ _Mo-om!”_

“Nope, don’t argue with me,” Alyssa says, a little more sharply than she normally would. “Not tonight, boys.”

Matt grabs Phil’s hand and pulls him into the kitchen of the apartment. Some things just _aren’t_ worth arguing over. That goes double for any kind of argument around Christmas with Alyssa.

Jessica and Foggy are already there, speaking quietly. Matt raises his eyebrows. What’s going on?

“You’re learning _judo_?” Jessica asks him, her voice at her normal volume again.

Matt wiggles his hand in a ‘maybe, maybe not’ gesture. “Depends on whether Anna and Ed say it’s okay,” he says. “If they say so, then yeah. It’s after school on Thursdays.”

Jessica groans in frustration. “So not _fair_.”

Matt shrugs. “You could come too,” he says. “If you really wanted to. The coach would probably want someone to be my partner, like in dance.”

Jessica bites her lip. That’s what that subtle movement and press of teeth into flesh means. It had taken Matt _ages_ to work that one out.

“Maybe. Dad’s been talking about teaching me more things at the garage, though. Showing me more of how engines work.”

She says it quietly, and it really shouldn’t feel like such a stab to Matt’s heart, but it _does_.

“Oh,” he says.

There’s no way around it. A garage _isn’t_ a good place for a just-went-blind kid. There’s tools everywhere, strong blasts of heat, flammable liquids, systems that are hard enough to deal with when you have eyes…and considering that Matt still associates engine oil with the day he went blind, he hadn’t felt like going back to the garage much after right after the accident. Which is why there were more afternoons when he went to Fogwell’s with his Dad, while Jessica either went with them, or split up to go to the garage with Phil and her Dad.

 _This is a good thing_ , he tells himself firmly. _Jessica really likes engines_.

So why are there tears stinging at his eyes behind his sunglasses?

He blinks them back and reaches out to grab the heat mats.

Ray teases Jessica throughout the meal, calling her ‘little princess.’ Whenever he does it, it sets Alyssa on edge a little, Matt can feel it in her heartbeat, but she doesn’t say anything. But Matt can hear the way the nickname makes Jessica grin.

“Is Grandma not better?” Phil asks at one point.

Matt hears Ray go very quiet in his seat, his heartbeat falling into a slowed, saddened rhythm.

Alyssa shakes her head, her heartbeat doing the same thing.

“No, tiger,” Brian says. “She couldn’t make it. But we’re going to go up and see her in a few days, okay?”

Phil nods, and there’s an awkward silence that follows that, until Jessica pipes in with, “Grandpa Ray, did I tell you Dad showed me how to change a tire?”

“A tire, princess?” Ray says, mock-horror in his voice. “But that’s almost as big as you are!”

Matt snorts. Jessica’s elbow digs into his ribs.

“What? It’s _true!”_ he protests. He was still at least an inch taller than Jessica, and she was definitely one of the skinniest people in their grade.

There’s a ripple of laughter that spreads through the adults.

“Jessica has a really angry expression on her face right now,” Foggy explains, whispering in his ear.

Matt smiles. “I think she’ll forgive me before tomorrow.”

After dinner, when it’s time to open the presents, she gives a delighted yelp as she pulls on her beanie, and Matt grins.

He’d _thought_ she’d like it.

* * *

As the hours tick by on the 24th, Matt fights the memories. They come with the same regularity as water droplets dripping from the tap. The 25th, they’d eat and hang out with Brian and Alyssa and Jessica and Phil, for as long as they could, before the Joneses had to leave to make it to Hartford. They’d laugh, and they’d eat, and if there was enough snow on the ground, they’d walk to the park and make snowmen, and Dad would always keep something in the freezer as a just-in-case after that first Christmas with Alyssa, even though the Great Charbroiled Ham Incident of ’95 never recurred.

But Christmas Eve, that was special. Always. His Dad waking him up at 11:30, walking to Saint Agnes, going back to the apartment for hot chocolate, and reading _The Hobbit_ together. The first time they’d read it together, it was because Nana had given it to him. The second time it was because they’d both missed Nana so much. And by the third year, it was tradition. That how was how Christmas Eve went. Midnight mass, hot chocolate, _The Hobbit_.

But it had been special because it was his and his Dad’s tradition, he thinks. Even Brian or Alyssa wouldn’t have understood it, not really. And if he tells Ed and Anna what they’d used to do, then…

He doesn’t know what would happen. 

“Matt! C’mon, it’s time to make the cookies!”

Foggy’s voice, like a vuvuzela in his ears.

Cautioned, Matt walks into the kitchen. The smell of baking ingredients – chocolate chips, brown sugar, vanilla, butter – hits his nose.

“Do you want help mixing it?”

He can hear Anna’s grin threaded into her voice, as _O Come All Ye Faithful_ sounds through the CD player.

“Yes, please, sweetheart,” she says, passing the mixing bowl to him. “You’ll need Foggy to crack the eggs into the bowl first.”

Matt shakes his head. “No, I don’t,” he says, reaching for the bowl. “The eggs are in here, aren’t they? Shells in here?”

He can hear the surprise in her voice. “Ah, yes, the eggs are in that bowl. How did you–?”

"Smell.”

“…That Mr Madison earned his fee,” she muses. “You definitely couldn’t have done that when you first came here.”

Matt smiles wryly. “Not the nicest of guys,” and oh, _what_ an understatement that was. But...it was true. He’d gone from having sensory overload to being able to do something like locate fresh eggs from their smell, to the inch.

“But he knew his sh–ahh,” he cuts himself off.

“Swear jar,” Foggy chimes in, and Matt sighs. Too late. Dammit.

Anna chuckles, and a moment later, there’s the sound of a coin dropping in the swear jar. “I’ll cover for you, this once. ‘Tis the season, after all.”

He grins at her. “Thanks, Anna.”

He gives the mixture a last stir, and then heaves it onto the counter next to the baking tray for the next step. He sighs. “Foggy, leave that spoon alone. We need it for the baking soda.”

Foggy freezes, spoon midway to his lips and – ah. Matt’s not supposed to know that, is he?

“How did you do that?” Foggy asks, in a voice caught between reverence and indignation.

Matt smirks. “Mr Madison’s tutelage.”

Anna lets out a low, startled whistle. “Foggy, baby, he’s right. Put the spoon down. Matt?”

He swallows. Is he in trouble? “Yeah?”

“ _Super_ cool, but don’t show it off outside the house too often. It could scare people.”

He nods. He’d kinda figured. “Yes, Anna.”

She kisses the top of his head. “Alright. I’ll grab the flour.”

After the cookies are in the oven, Anna is herding them to the table for a few rounds of 21 while they wait. “Matt, did you and Jack ever go to midnight Mass?”

Matt trips over his own feet, which he hasn’t done since straight after the accident. Unfortunately, he trips into Foggy, and they land in a tangle on the floor.

“Dude, you’re heavy,” Foggy grumps, trying to push Matt’s body off him.

Matt rolls off. “Uh…yeah, we did,” he says.

Anna nods, not fazed in the slightest by the tumble.

“Do you want to go this year?” And with that simple question, all the words desert him.

Saint Agnes on Christmas Eve. Before this year, it wouldn’t have even been a question. Questioning it would have been like questioning rivers running towards the sea, or Manhattan being an island. But now, it is a question. He swallows. Thinks about the darkness of the pews without his father there, and his Nana.

“Nah,” he says, tears stinging at his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Not tonight.”

Anna shrugs. “Okay, then. C’mon, let’s do this.”

* * *

Matt listens intently as Anna goes through the list of relatives in the car on the drive to Levittown. He still can’t believe that they’re leaving Manhattan today.

“There’s Michael. He’s Ed’s big brother, and they’re very close. Mike is a bachelor. Not married, no kids.”

_Okay, simple enough._

“Then, there’s Pam, Ed’s next sibling, about two years younger than him, and Pam is married to Rafael, and they have several kids so far, Vincente and Danielle, Vanessa and Rowan. Vanessa and Rowan are fraternal twins. Pam and Rafael host it every year, since it’s the only place that has enough room.”

_Okay…shouldn’t be too hard._

Anna takes a deep breath. “Then there’s Will, also unmarried, also no children. After that, there’s Karrin, she’s married to David, and they have three kids, Kathleen, Leo and Bill. Finally, there’s Alex, he’s married to Jennifer, and they have Jennifer Junior and a baby on the way. That’s Ed’s siblings.”

_…I give up._

“Anna, I can’t keep that straight.”

“Here’s where you get lucky,” Foggy says. “You don’t have to keep the adults’ names straight.”

“…isn’t it hard to keep the cousins’ name straight?” Hell, Matt's lost count of _how many_ kids were in that list, let alone being able to recall what they were named. 

“No. But it is hard to keep the adults’ names straight. On the other hand, since you’re blind, they’ll always remind you who they are. So, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Right, because there’s no downside to not being able to see!” Matt says, slathering extra sarcasm onto the words, just to make sure Foggy gets it.

Foggy pauses. “…You’ve got a point,” he admits, grudgingly. They pull up outside the house, and Matt cradles the cookies in his arms carefully. They’re the offering to the Nelson Christmas.

“C’mon in!” someone bellows from inside the house. Matt takes a deep breath. _Show time._

As it turns out, though, he doesn’t have enough time to be nervous. When they walk into the rooms, it’s like a giant game of pass-the-parcel begins, as he, Ed, Anna and Foggy are passed from a laughing woman who introduces herself as Pam, to a bass-voiced man (“Rafael,” Foggy whispers in his ear) who rumbles that they’d better say hi to great-Aunt Jacoda in the living room before they go find their cousins. Matt feels Foggy’s bracing himself.

“Hi, Nan,” Anna says cheerily. “Hi, Aunt Jacoda.”

“Annie! So _good_ to see you!”

Matt winces. Anna, she liked. Anne, she’d tolerate. Annie, never.

“That was Jacoda,” Foggy whispers.

“I thought she hated being called Annie,” Matt hisses back.

“She _does._ ”

“And there’s my grandsons!” says another voice. “Hello, Foggy. Hi, Matthew. I’m Nana.”

Matt swallows, resisting the impulse to scream _no, you’re not_. It’s not like his Nana’s voice. It’s deeper, almost raspy, and filled with warmth.

 _She said ‘grandsons.’_ _Plural._

He’s not sure whether he wants to run screaming away from the house or toward the voice.

Tentatively, he steps forward and waves. “Hi?”

“Hi, Matt,” says a third voice. A woman, entering the room. “I’m Jean, by the way. The kids are in the den playing what looked like it was going to be a vicious round of Scrabble. Want me to point the way?”

Matt bites his lip, as she crouches in front of him and holds her hand out. “Will they let me play?”

“Form a team with Foggy,” the third voice – Jean? Jean – says. “My hand’s right in front of you.”

Matt takes a hold of it, and lets her lead him to the other kids. Beside him, Foggy’s heartbeat thumps, a relaxed, happy rhythm. Matt wishes his own heart would do the same.

He likes Foggy’s cousins.

No. He likes – _his_ cousins.

Dear God, that’s a strange thought. He’s never had cousins. Dad didn’t have siblings. But according to all the adults, he’s officially gained nine cousins, lack of adoption paperwork be damned. He gets a tour of the house from Vanessa, who seems to have at least one ridiculous anecdote for every room, double-teams with Foggy to keep Jennifer Junior from eating the Scrabble tiles, talks Pokémon with Leo, and impresses Vincente by turning ‘got’ into ‘zygote.’

“Okay, it’s official,” Vincente declares, after gracefully losing 239-246. For his part, Matt’s impressed. They might have won, but _damn_ if Vincente didn’t make them work for it. “You’re always welcome to play, Murdock – but you’re _never_ allowed to team up with Foggy ever again.”

“Awwww, c’mon!” Foggy whines.

“Nope. Nothin’ doing, squirt, don’t give me the puppy dog eyes. “

Matt likes Vincente. He’s the eldest at sixteen, but he doesn’t talk down to Matt like the occasional older kid hanging around Fogwell’s would do.

“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” Vincente asks him casually, as they pack up the Scrabble board.

Matt thinks about it carefully. “A lawyer,” he decides.

“Huh. Really? Why?”

Vincente’s voice is curious, but not surprised. He doesn’t doubt that Matt _could_ do it; just surprised as to why he’d like to do it.

Matt shrugs. “If Dad hadn’t hired a lawyer, I probably would have ended up in an orphanage. Or the foster care system.”

_If Dad had a good lawyer...might he still be alive?_

“Makes sense,” Vincente says. “Good luck with that, kid.”

Matt smiles up at him. Vincente’s tone is utterly, totally guileless.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Everybody! Food’s ready!” a voice bellows through the house.

“ _Coming, Mom!”_ Vincente yells back. He grips Matt’s hand and pulls him to his feet. “C’mon, squirt.”

 _Squirt._ No-one’s ever called him that before, Matt reflects. It seems pretty bizarre for a nickname. But Vincente’s tone has the same layers of affection in it as when he’d addressed Foggy. No exasperation, but that was understandable. Foggy could be pretty damn exasperating.

Just after dessert, Matt hears Ed excuse himself from the room, murmuring something in Anna’s ear. Matt gets up, and whistles for Queen. He’s kept her harness on; he figures it’s easier than explaining to every single member of the Nelson clan that he doesn’t need her to quite the same extent as others might.

He finds Ed in the front hallway, slipping on his coat.

“Hey, Matt,” Ed says, with a sigh. Disappointment?

Matt nods, forcing a smile. The thought that Ed was disappointed to see him...hurts more than he'd expected. “Hey. Where are you going?”

Ed shrugs. “Every year, about three hours into this – six, if we were here in the mornin’ as well – I need to go for a walk. There’s just too many people. You wanna come?”

Matt smiles. Genuinely, this time. Hell, he feels the same. It’s just so... _different_ from every other Christmas he’s ever had.

He grabs Ed’s arm, and they walk down the street, snowfall muting their footfalls.

“So tell me about this judo club,” Ed says. It’s phrased like an invitation. Matt takes it.

“It’s after school on Mondays. Mister Cuevas says I’d need to work with a partner, and that Queen would have to stay outside, but he’s pretty cool with it.”

There’s a small coal of resentment in his stomach, that he needs to _calculate_ and work around, in ways he never would have had to do before last year. He swallows it down.

“Why do you want to do it?”

Matt swallows. He’s not sure why himself. “Dad...never wanted me to learn how to fight. No matter how much I asked him.”

“I know,” Ed says. “He told me, once. Said he didn’t want you to turn out like him.”

“He should _never_ have said that,” Matt says, and his tone sounds strange, even to him. It sounds fierce and angry and… “He was my _Dad_. He was the _best Dad_ and – he was _mine._ He shouldn’t have said that.”

Ed nods. “Jack was pretty harsh on himself. So, this is about staying close to your Dad?”

He hadn’t said that. But now that Matt thought about it…

“Yeah, I guess it is. Does that bother you?”

Was it awkward for him? Knowing he was walking in the shoes first owned by another man? Being the one whose job it was to feed, clothe, shelter him, tuck him in, show him life’s ropes, and knowing that Matt wasn’t his?

Ed snorts. “Kiddo, I’m not going to replace Jack Murdock. You know it, I know it, the whole world and his dog knows it. For one thing, I’m not tall enough.”

Matt tries and fails to suppress an undignified, semihysterical laugh. Ed waits, his heartbeat remaining calm and steady. “Matt, if this is what you wanna do to respect his memory...it’s better than some of the stuff _I_ pulled when I lost my Dad.” He nods. “We’ll sign you up as soon as school goes back.”

Matt lets out a relieved sigh. “Thanks, Ed.”

Ed reaches out and ruffles his hair.

“Merry Christmas, Matt.”

Matt smiles up at him. “Merry Christmas, Ed.”


	17. May 23, 2000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: A rumour spreads around the school, Trish wants a cupcake, Matt has a judo lesson, Foggy is insecure, and Jessica and Brian repair engines and discuss lipstick choices. No-one ever said growing up was easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It’s midnight here, and I probably should wait to post this but I am so excited to announce: I LIVE. AND SO DOES THIS STORY.
> 
> Content warnings: Dorothy Walker's A+ Parenting; body insecurities; negative self-talk;

**12:53pm**

“Hi everybody! Oh, hey, cool lipstick, Jess. So did you hear?” Lisa asks them, setting her lunch down as she folds into the seat opposite Jessica, bouncing between thoughts in her usual whirl. That’s Lisa for you.

“Hear what?” Foggy asks, and Jessica shakes her head. No, of course Foggy hasn’t heard. Jessica has yet to meet a person who less aware of gossip than Foggy.

“We’re going to have a new student,” Lisa says, and Matt tilts his head back, his lips parting in interest. Jessica feels the urge to mess up Lisa’s perfectly braided hair, but she ignores it. She likes Lisa. Most of the time. 

“So? We have new students all the time,” Foggy points out, and yeah, that’s true, their school population _is_ swelling…

“ _Yeah_ ,” Lisa says, taking a drink from her Yakult for emphasis, “but only one of them is _Patsy Walker_.”

Foggy’s jaw hits the floor. Jessica shrugs when Lisa looks at her expectantly. “I already heard.”

“From who?”

“Gen Walker, in P.E. Mostly because she was playing it off like they were related, and Walker isn’t a really common surname.”

“I don’t know if it’s _that_ common,” Matt objects, pushing his sunglasses up his nose with one finger. Jessica sticks her tongue out at him, and isn’t surprised at all when he says, “Don’t make that face, Jess.”

“How do you always _know_?” Lisa asks, with a laugh, but Matt leans back like he’s tilting away from the question.

Jessica steps in. “We’ve known each other since kindergarten, it’s not _that_ surprising,” she says, neatly deflecting the obvious problem with that. He’d come clean with her over the Christmas break. “And I think it’s a pretty common surname.”

“No, think about it. We know one Walker in our grade of like two hundred and fifty people. We have two Changs–” Lisa solemnly inclines her head – “three O’Reillys, and four Callahans.”

“That’s because the O’Reillys and the Callahans are all, like, second and third cousins,” Foggy objects with a laugh.

“Why do you think it’s happening?” Jessica asks, because really, that’s the most interesting piece of the puzzle. “I mean, _It’s Patsy_ is a suburban setting. Why is its star suddenly up and moving to _Hell’s Kitchen?_ ”

“She might not be moving here,” Lisa counters. “Just, y’know. Going to school here.”

“It’s not like we’re a boarding school,” Matt objects. “And if she wasn’t living in Hell’s Kitchen, why go to school in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Maybe she can’t stay where she is,” Jessica says slowly, as an uncomfortable thought occurs to her, the memory of last year in the police station, in the wake of Jack’s death.

Foggy scoffs. “What, like she’s in danger or something? She’s _Patsy Walker_. Who’d want to hurt her?”

**2:53pm**

“C’mon, do you want them to call you _Fatsy?_ ” Mom hisses, as she smacks a cupcake out of Patsy’s hand. “Now stop fidgeting, the reporter will be here any minute!”

“I still don’t see why I have to move,” Patsy mumbles mutinously, as Mom replaces the cupcake with a celery stick.

“Because the studio has agreed that _It’s Patsy_ needs a direction shift for the next two seasons at least,” Mom says, “and we could use the publicity boost. _Stop_ that!” she says, slapping Patsy’s hand away from her ear. It carries just enough force that Patsy lowers her hand to the side, fidgeting with the pleats of her skirt instead of the wig.

The columnist walks in two minutes later. Her smile seems to be genuine, and Patsy makes sure that hers appears so as well.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Patsy,” the columnist says, and Patsy’s an excellent liar. That’s why her voice doesn’t waver when she says:

“Gosh, I was about to say the same thing!”

** 3:53pm **

Foggy groans as his head thumps back down into the gym mat again, his body aching.

“Ugh,” he manages. It’s not what he wants to say, but it’ll do for now.

Matt’s smile is smug as he offers his hand to Foggy, and Foggy grabs it, letting his brother haul him to his feet. Matt is freakishly strong, and more than capable of pulling Foggy up, even if Foggy is still fat.

 _You’re not fat,_ he can almost hear Mom insisting, her gentle smile climbing into her eyes. _You’re lovely._ The latter half of which might be true, from a certain perspective, but the first half of which definitely wasn’t, and a single look between Matt and Foggy made that very clear.

Matt’s smile falters, his head tipping to the side in the way that makes him look like Queen when she hears something.

“Well done, Matt,” Mr Cuevas says, clapping his hands. “Foggy, it’s your turn now.”

Foggy takes a deep breath, and tries the maneuver, but he must have missed some critical step, because his arms stay locked around Matt’s waist, and no matter how hard he pulls, he can’t seem to set Matt off his feet. There is a ripple of snickers from Todd Delantey, one of the other kids in the judo group. Foggy scowls.

“No, Foggy,” Mr Cuevas says, shaking his head. “You need to put your right leg _behind_ Matt’s – no, not like – yes, like that,” he says. “And then if you stand close enough, it’s more a question of tugging him over your hip – grip his left leg, you see – there! Yes, like that. Very good. Todd, your turn now.”

Matt leans over as they resume their seats. “Are you okay?” His fingers are twiddling, like they do when he’s worried and he doesn’t have his rosary on him.

Foggy nods. “I’m fine.”

“ _Foggy.”_

Foggy sighs. “The lie detector thing is really annoying.”

“Foggy. Please. Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Foggy says, firmly, and Matt flinches away, his chin tilting down. Guilt prickles in Foggy’s stomach, hot and uncomfortable, but what is he supposed to say? _You’re always better than me – you’re stronger, faster, better-looking, smarter – why do you have to be better than me? _

Matt squeezes his shoulder, and it helps, a little. Foggy scrapes up a smile, and tells Matt so.

The responding smile is warm and kind, and Foggy’s stomach prickles even more, because resenting his big brother would never have occurred to him a year ago, and he does not know when that changed.

Matt lasts until they’re walking home from school. The apartment isn’t far – maybe twenty minutes’ walk – and Mom thinks it’s good for them to cool down after judo.

“It wasn’t anything Todd said, was it?”

“You’re the one with super senses,” Foggy grumbles. That hadn’t occurred to him earlier, but it probably should have. Really, where didn’t Matt have him beat?

Matt’s head snaps towards him. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Foggy blinks. “What do you mean?”

“‘Where don’t I have you beat?’” Matt says, making scare quotes with the hand that’s not holding Queen’s leash.

Foggy gapes at him. “I said that out loud?”

Matt sighs. “Yes, Foggy. And to answer that question, _you have working eyes._ ”

“So do lots of other people!” Foggy says, throwing up his hands, and then it all comes spilling out, all of it, and Matt stands there like he’s been turned to stone. Queen whines, but doesn’t move, even though her tail stops wagging; she’s too well-trained to try and intervene when she’s in the harness. “You’re smart and fast and strong and athletic and you have–” he cuts himself off there, realisation sinking in like cold water dumped over his head that yelling that his brother has super-powers in the middle of the street is _possibly_ a bad idea.

“A dog?” Matt says, a faint smile twisting at the corner of his mouth, and Foggy kinda wants to punch him even more now. “Foggy. _Foggy._ Yes, so I’m fast. Yes, I’m strong – I’ve kinda been fighting for a while longer than you have. And as for who’s smarter, I don’t know I wanna take that bet. But– why? Why does that matter?”

Foggy swallows. How does he even _explain_ this?

“Who does that make me?”

Matt looks at him like he’s lost his mind, like _he’s_ the one that makes no sense.

“The kind one,” Matt says, after a long moment. “The brave one. The one who was there when my world fell apart. And that matters, Foggy. The rest is bullshit.” His hand comes up again and pulls Foggy into a hug, in the middle of the street. Other pedestrians weave around them, shooting them dirty looks for obstructing the path, but Matt wouldn’t know that. Foggy should probably narrate that, but he doesn’t. He sinks into the hug instead, as Matt’s arms circle around him. “You’re like Cinderella, Foggy.”

Foggy snorts. “You’re not helping.”

“Yeah, I am. You're brave and you're kind. Like Cinderella. That’s you,” Matt says, with a little nod, the one he has when he’s figured something out. “Even if you aren’t proud of you, I am.”

Foggy blinks, and that sends the tears spilling down his face. Matt smiles and digs a pack of tissues out of his pocket.

**4:53pm**

Jessica is silent as they work on the engine. He tells her about the carburetor, explains the way it moderates the air flow. Her eyes are sharp as she takes it in, and he can see the information falling into place. Not _quite_ as easy as breathing, no, but certainly more easily than she’d taken in _Huckleberry Finn_.

He can’t help but smile and ruffle her hair, as she leans over, pursing her lips.

“Why black, anyway?” he asks her.

Jessica looks up, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “It’s not black. It’s dark purple.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry, your highness. Why dark purple?” Brian pesters.

She shrugs, her hair falling forward slightly to curtain her face. “I just...wanted to try it. And I like purple.”

Brian sighs. “Well, I don’t see the harm. But listen to your Mom, okay? She doesn’t worry because she hates fun, you know. She just…”

“Worries,” Jessica says. She shrugs at his surprised look. “What? It’s kinda obvious, Dad.”

Brian sighs again. Alyssa is going to hate that. She’s worked so hard to conceal the anxiety from the kids, try and be as normal for them as she possibly could.

He catches the observant light in Jessica’s eyes as she looks down at the carburetor again, and can’t help but feel a burst of pride at his little sharp-eyed girl.

**5:53pm**

Jessica knocks on Mom’s study door, taking a deep breath.

“Come in,” Mom says.

She pushes the door open and steps inside. She’s always liked her Mom’s study. Papers line the desk, organised into neat stacks: lecture notes, papers that have been graded, papers to be graded. There’s a new stack that’s entered the pile, a research thing that she’s working on.

Mom sighs as she looks at Jessica, and Jessica swallows, but then Mom gestures to the stool beside her chair, clearing the stack of papers that’s on it. Memos.

“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I still disagree – I don’t like that shade, I just don’t – but I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. I’m sorry I did that, sweetheart, and I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Jessica stares at her hands in her lap. “I just wanted to try something _different_ ,” she says.

“Yeah,” Mom says. “I guess there’s going to be a lot more different this year. But – you’ve gotta understand, Jessie. It feels like I just took you home from the hospital yesterday.” She reaches across the desk and squeezes Jessica’s hands. “And then you stand in front of me in purple lipstick, and it feels so fast. Although I suppose it doesn’t feel that way on your end?”

Her smile is sweet and wry, lurking at the left corner of her mouth, the way it does when she wants to laugh at herself, because she thinks she’s being silly. Jessica shakes her head in answer to the question.

“Sometimes, it’s going to confuse me. So – can you try and be patient with your Mom?”

Jessica’s throat closes up, and she puts her hand on her Mom’s knee, silently requesting permission. She’s too big for it, now, she really is, but Mom adjusts the chair and pulls her into her lap, even though it’s more awkward than it used to be. Yet another thing that’s changed somehow, and Jessica doesn’t even know when.

“I’m keeping the lipstick, though,” Jessica says, a note of challenge in her voice.

Mom sighs. “If you want to.”

Jessica smiles and inhales her mother’s scent of coconut shampoo and sharp, spicy perfume. “Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you too, Jessica.”


	18. I hope this day will never end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trish's first day. Growing up is still not easy. In which Dorothy Walker's A+ parenting comes to Matt's attention, Jessica is not quite as good at reading people as she imagines, and Foggy helps with English.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* I UPDATED! We still live, y'all!

Date: 30th May, 2000

* * *

 

There is a new person in their homeroom.

This would, under any circumstances, be cause for comment; their school might be big, but homeroom is still only thirty kids. Matt zeroes in on the newcomer, breathing in deeply and slowly filtering through the morass of information.

Her voice is bright as she asks questions about school, and classes, and where things are, but there’s a slight strained undertone to it, like she’s stressed or in pain. There’s a weird rasp whenever she tilts her head; it sounds subtly different from when Jessica moves her head the same way. She laughs, but she sounds faintly uncomfortable, stretching and Matt feels the wince, and tastes copper in the air suddenly. She’s hurt.

 _She's hurt._ Who the hell hurt Patsy Walker? 

“Didn’t realise you’d be staring at her too,” Jessica says beside him, but her heartbeat is cheerful and her tone is light and teasing. Matt shifts Queen’s leash, and his books to his other hand and nudges her shoulder.

“Staring would be difficult.”

“You know what I mean. Didn’t think you’d be kneeling along with everyone else at the feet of P.S. 35’s new Queen.”

“If it helps, she’s not happy about it,” Matt says, wrinkling his nose at her, and Jessica’s heartbeat stutters. She helps him stack the books, before dropping into the seat beside his.

“Really?” she asks, after a long moment.

“Really,” Matt confirms. “I think the attention is actually stressing her out. Her heartbeat isn’t happy.”

“Show-off,” Jessica says, nudging him again, teasing and playful, and Matt elbows her in the ribs, even as Foggy walks into the room, heading straight for his desk on the other side of Matt’s.

“Hey, why is she here?”

“Hi to you too, Foggy,” Jessica says, but there’s no actual irritation in her voice.

“Hi Jess,” Foggy says, and Matt can almost hear Jessica’s eye-roll. “What’s she doing here?”

“I assume she’s here for the same reason we’re all here,” Matt says.

“What kept you, anyway?” Jessica asks, curious.

“I spilled Yakult on my shirt,” Foggy says. Matt blinks. He knew he’d recognised the smell from somewhere, but why did Foggy have Yakult? “Lisa had a spare.”

Matt smiles. It’s _such_ a Lisa thing to do, to accidentally grab two Yakults and then pass the other one on.

“And she didn’t give it to me?” Jessica asks, a pout in her voice.

“You snooze, you lose,” Foggy says unsympathetically, just as Mr Geller says, “Alright, everybody! Please sit down, please sit down.”

Matt whistles for Queen to sit down. Her tail thumps against his feet, and he strokes one hand through her soft hair.

* * *

Jessica leans back in her chair at lunch. Lisa is swirling a spoon through her soup instead of actually eating it, Matt is looking at Lisa with his eyebrows knitted together in worry, and Foggy is rambling about why _Beauty and the Beast_ is actually genius. He’s either pretending to be oblivious, or actually being oblivious. A year ago, it would have definitely been the latter, but Jessica’s not so sure about this year.

When Foggy pauses for breath, Matt cuts in. “Lisa, is something wrong?”

Lisa swallows, and Jessica nudges Matt under the table. _Maybe back off._ “N-no. Why would you think that?” One hand comes up to tuck her braid behind her ear. She’s nervous? Yeah, she’s definitely nervous.

Foggy’s attention is redirected now, and Matt can feel him tilting his head in concerned. “I mean, you’re playing with your food. You only do that when you’re stressed,” Jessica says.

“Or the fact that you love Belle almost as much as I do, but you haven’t said a word,” Foggy says. “C’mon. What’s wrong?”

Lisa takes a deep breath. “Nothing’s wrong,” she says. Her voice is confident, but her eyes flick from Foggy to Matt, just for a second, as her cheeks go pink, and Jessica thinks _oh_. “Seriously. I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“How awful Gaston is,” Lisa says, her eyes meeting Foggy’s, and Jessica is impressed. Lying that fluently is not easy. Matt shifts in his seat – he’s caught it – and Jessica kicks him under the table when it looks like he’s going to call her on it.

She’s not sure Matt likes Lisa – at least, not the way she likes him. And that _has_ to hurt. It hurts enough without attention being called to it.

Lisa’s eyes meet hers, and Jessica looks away, before saying: “Hey, I can’t remember. Do we have a math test on Friday?”

Lisa’s eyes are grateful, as Foggy shakes his head. “Nah, it’s next Monday. Long division. Why are you worried? You’re the best of us at maths.”

Jessica shrugs. “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Hey, can you help me with my Huck Finn notes later?”

“Sure!” Foggy says brightly. “After school? Matt’s seeing Emily.”

“I still can’t believe you get to call your therapist by her first name,” Lisa grouses, and she sounds almost normal. “She sounds like so much more fun than Dr Katz.”

“Yeah, but you only see Dr Katz once a month,” Matt says. “I’ve been seeing Emily once a week since the accident.”

Lisa nods. There’s no uncomfortable shifting with Lisa, or trying hard not to stare at Matt’s glasses. She doesn’t try to pat Queen when she’s in the harness, or ask him what it’s like to not see, like Maureen O’Reilly had the other day, or comment when Matt gets distracted by a conversation halfway across the room. Lisa Chang is good people, as Jack would say.

“I guess that explains it,” Lisa says, before glaring over at one of the other tables. “Ugh. Are they ever gonna leave her alone?”

“Doubt it,” Jessica says, drinking the juice box.

* * *

“So what’s it like? Being an actress?” Lily Donovan asks. 

Patsy smiles at her, but lets her gaze drop to the lunch that Mother’s P.A had packed. Lily, she thought this one was called. It’ll look like shyness, she thinks. Not like a lie.

Patsy carefully pushes away thoughts of time spent wishing for cupcakes instead of celery sticks, of checking the mirror and carefully applying concealer and several layers of make-up – it’s a _damn_ good thing that she’s had the ‘natural’ look perfected since she was nine – of constantly playing catch-up with school tutors. She hadn’t even been able to respond to the Civics question today about what the function of the Senate was.

“It’s pretty fun,” Patsy says, with a self-deprecating laugh.

She’s always been excellent with this.

She meets Lily’s blue gaze again, and smiles. “So, Lily, what do you do around here for fun?”

By the end of lunch, Patsy has redirected about twelve questions about what it’s like being acting, which famous people she has and hasn’t met, and heard most of the names of the students at the school. A flash of gold movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention. A dog. Why is there a dog here?

Oh! She recognises his face; she hadn’t seen the dog before in the classroom, though, or put it together with the sunglasses. He is walking back to the table, one hand around the leash, the other threaded through the arm of a pale-skinned girl who she recognises from science.

She taps Lily. “Hey, who is that?”

Lily looks over, and smiles. “Oh, that’s Matt. Matt Murdock. He’s been here forever. He got in an accident two years ago, that’s why he has Queen.”

“Queen is the dog?”

“Yeah. Don’t pet her when she’s in the harness. Matt and Foggy – that’s the blond next to him – both get  _really_ irritated. So does Jessica. Uh, black hair, pale skin, purple lipstick.”

Patsy studies them for a long minute. The blind boy, the chubby blond boy next to him, the pale-skinned, twig-thin girl, and the Asian – Lisa, wasn’t it? She thought she recognised her from her math class, when the teacher had to spend a couple of minutes untangling her question. She didn’t seem _dumb_ , exactly, but she could have gotten to the point much sooner. Were they the school’s misfits?

“Are they nice?”

“Sure. So long as you don’t mess with any of them. Matt and Jessica don’t take shit.”

Patsy raises her eyebrows. “Really? Jessica I understand, but Matt–”

“Trust me,” Lily says, twining noodles around her fork. “Matt’s Dad was kinda famous. Battlin’ Jack Murdock. He was a boxer.”

“Was?”

Lily nods. “Died a few months after the accident. He lives with Foggy’s family now.”

Patsy frowns again. “No relatives?”

“Nope,” Lily says, popping the ‘p.’

At that precise moment, the black-haired girl – Jessica, Patsy corrects herself, the girl is _Jessica_ – looks over at them, and gives Patsy the flattest, most contemptuous look she has ever seen. And Patsy’s seen her mother tear into hapless assistants and all but leave their guts spilled on the floor for the past few years.

“So,” Patsy says, keeping her tone cheerful, around the sudden spike of panic she feels. Abruptly, Jessica’s gaze swings back to Matt. “Lily, do you have any plans for the summer?”

* * *

“Jess, you didn’t have to do that,” Matt sighs, as they walk back to the table. 

“They were talking about you.” 

“She’s new. She was going to be curious.”

“So? That doesn’t make it okay, Matt.”

Matt sighs again. It’s very, very wrong that he feels a warmth in his chest at the hard, flat note in Jessica’s voice.

“At least tell me you’ve stopped glaring at them.”

“Who says I was glaring?”

“You glare audibly.”

“Show-off,” she says, but she’s smiling. He can hear the stretch of her lips over her teeth, the sound slightly thick with her lipstick. He’d asked her about it a few weeks ago, and her heartbeat had accelerated, and he’d felt her skin heat, before she shrugged and said, “Felt like a change.”

“Guilty,” Matt drawls. “C’mon, let’s get back before lunch finishes.”

* * *

The jazz on the radio is at a low hum. Anna had a shift at the hospital, and Ed had waved them go up to the living room, before hustling Matt off to see Emily. 

“It’s a motif,” Foggy explains, “a recurring symbol.”

“Yeah, I know _that_. I just don’t understand what the motif is supposed to _do_ ,” Jessica says, frustrated. She taps the paper. “The teacher says that I’m getting the techniques right, I’m not mixing up with, I dunno, metaphors or something. But I’m supposed to say what it’s supposed to do in my essays.”

Foggy blinks, and looks up at the ceiling. “Um. Okay, how do I put this–”

“What, you mean in a way that I’ll _understand_?” Jessica snaps.

Foggy’s gaze snaps back to her with wide, shocked eyes. “What? No, I’m just trying to think of the right words. What are you talking about?”

Jessica shrugs, her gaze flicking to her nails, which are drumming in the Nelsons’ kitchen table. “Just. You know. I’m not as good at this as you and Matt, I never have been. You guys do words, and I do maths.”

Foggy looks at her, steadily. He’s changed so much since Jack’s death, Jessica realises with a swallow. The Foggy of a year ago would never have looked at her like that, with so much steel in his tone, or unflinching patience in his eyes. “There’s _nothing_ wrong with your brain, Jess. It works just fine. Now let me answer the damn question.”

Jessica sits back in her chair, surprised. “Swear jar,” she points out.

“Mom’s not here, and neither is Dad. The motif – it’s like – oh! Oh! Okay, I know!” Foggy grins, and the moment shatters. He is a ten-year old again. “Okay, so the teacher wants you to talk about the _effect_ of the motif, right? It's glue!"

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Wanna try that again?" 

Foggy pulls a face at her. " _Like_ glue, kinda. It sort of helps bind the book together. It reminds you of the point of the book.” 

Jessica tilts her head to the side. “Do books have to have a point?”

Foggy’s forehead crinkles. “Usually, I think?”

Jessica smiles. “Thanks, Foggy.”

“Anytime,” Foggy says, grinning and opening the Science textbook.

“Hey, Fog?”

“Yeah?”

“If Lisa seems sad over the next–” Jessica thinks about it hard –“week, maybe don’t prod her about it. In public, anyway.”

Foggy blinks at her. “Why?”

Jessica winces. It’s not really her secret to tell, but…it’s so obvious. Is it really a secret? 

She sighs. If Foggy knows, then he can't accidentally set anything off. “I think she likes Matt.”

Foggy nods. “Yeah, and?”

Jessica blinks. “…And Matt doesn’t like her.”

“Yeah, he does.”

Jessica’s eyebrows shoot up. “Foggy. I don’t mean like friends.”

“I know,” Foggy says cheerfully. “I think Matt likes her, though. He just doesn’t know how to say anything about it.”

Jessica’s throat has a lump in it, and taking a deep breath is a challenge, suddenly. “You think?”

Foggy looks at her, and snorts. “You realise it doesn’t change anything, right?”

“Doesn’t it?” Her voice comes out sharper than she'd meant.

Foggy shakes his head, unfazed. “I mean, _we’re_ changing, yeah. But he’s still Matt, and you’re still Jess, and I’m still Foggy. We’re going to get through this.”

“This?”

“Puberty. Adolescence. High school.”

“Fog, we’re not even _in_ high school yet,” Jessica points out, but she smiles anyway. “And none of us have hit puberty yet.”  She still hasn't gotten her period, even though Mom's started to put pads in her schoolbag, with a kiss to the top of her head, and a whisper of  _just in case, sweetheart,_ _there's nothing worse than being caught out._ Jessica always pulls a face, but she doesn't take the pads out. Even if they haven't become useful yet. 

Foggy flicks a rubber band at her. “Oh, you know what I _mean_. Besides, you’re Matt’s favourite.”

“Favourite friend?”

“More like favourite person, in the world.”Foggy smiles at her, beautiful and bright. “This doesn’t change that.”

And Foggy sounds so utterly confident in it, so matter of fact, as though he’s saying something as simple as _the sky is blue_ or _Queen’s a Golden Retriever_ , that Jessica feels the lump in her throat ease a little.

She gets up, and turns the radio up. “Come on, Foggy.”

Foggy looks between the science report on the table, Jessica’s outstretched hand, and grins before slipping into the lead position. Glenn Miller and salsa aren’t really designed to go together, but they haven’t started learning swing yet, and they both end up breathless with laughter and leaning against the kitchen counters, when they can’t dance anymore. 

When they both have to finish the experiment report before school the next day, Jessica weighs up the pros and cons, and decides that it was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought that was mostly just another happy chapter before the plot showed up, then I've become predictable. I'll see you next time, for when the angst train is scheduled to hit the station.


	19. I really wanna be your friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica and Trish find that their first impressions of each other may have been mistaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains menarche. If that's a problem for you, I recommend sitting this one out.

_11 th November, 2000_

 

They’re in the library when they hear it. A frantic muttering, and rapid flipping through a textbook. Patsy’s voice, soft and frantic. 

“Come on, where is it? Where is it?”

Matt looks up, his eyebrows already curling into a worried frown, and Jessica sighs, shutting the math book. “You want to help her.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Matt chews on his lips.

“She’s been missing a _lot_ of school, Jess. And she sounds…really stressed.”

“Her heartbeat?”

“Fast. Really fast. And I don’t think she…” Matt hesitates, like he’s about to add something else. Jessica prods him with a “Hmm?” now that raising her eyebrows at him no longer works.

“I don’t think she gets a lot of help at home,” Matt says, like he’s talking around something.

Interesting. Why wouldn’t Matt say anything, though? It’s not like Jess’d say anything. It’s Matt _,_ after all.

“If she needs help with English, this is all on you,” she tells him, because it’s that time of year.

Matt grins at her, and picks up Queen’s leash, balancing his books and Braille note-taker in the crook of his left arm. “Deal.”

They walk over to the table where the redhead sits, half-hidden behind one of the shelves of the library. _Why is she here? It’s dimmer than the rest of the library._ Jessica glances back over her shoulder, and can’t see the door. Her eyes narrowed. _If you wanted to hide, this would be the place to do it._

_The Drama Queen needs to hide?_

Matt reaches over and taps Patsy on the shoulder, and she flinches from the touch, yelping, and slamming the book shut. Matt’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, and he holds his books a little tighter; Jessica holds up her hands, palms up and out.

“Whoa! Truce,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” Matt says, at almost the same time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry.”

Patsy laughs. She’s beautiful when she laughs, Jessica notes, but the strain in her voice is there all the same. _Huh._

“No, no, it’s fine,” she says. “It’s fine.”

Matt bites at his lip. “Listen, did you – need something? Can we help?”

“No, no. It’s fine. Really.”

“Cut it out,” Jessica tells her, crossing her arms. “You’ve missed the past two months of school for shooting.”

“There are tutors on set,” Patsy says, but her voice is weak, the words falling flat. Jessica resists the urge to smile triumphantly.

“Sure,” Matt says, nodding, as though that paper-thin veil is actually fooling him. Whatever. “But sometimes…” he pauses, obviously searching for words, for the right thing to say.

Jessica sighs, and steps in. “Sometimes things take a while,” she says, and she doesn’t want to say this to _Patsy Walker,_ of all people, but…fine. If Matt wants to do this, she’ll back him. It’s just passed November. The second year without Jack. “It took me three tries to get the _Huck Finn_ essay good last year.” Mom had insisted. Foggy and Matt had helped. And the beaming smile that Mom had given her, as she looked at the A- had been worth it.

 _There’s nothing wrong with your mind, Jessica_ , Mom had told her, kissing the top of her head. _Nothing. And you’re really good at people. The people in books are just people._

Patsy bites her lip, looking down at the book, and then looks back up at them. “It’s the Civics assignment. I wrote it down _somewhere_ , but I don’t know where it is, and I’ve got an extension, but it runs out in a few days.”

“Okay,” Matt says, sitting down beside her. Jessica drags the chair on Patsy’s other side out beside her, and Queen lies at their feet, her tail thumping against the carpet of the library. “Let’s start there.”

After they lay out the basics for the assignment, with Jessica chipping in every now and then around Matt’s words, Patsy looks down at the page of her hand-writing. And then up again.

“Why are you two doing this?” she asks, puzzlement in her voice. “What do you want?”

Matt looks confused. “What d’you mean?”

Patsy shrugs. “Everybody wants _something_. So…what did you want?”

“I – _nothing_ ,” Matt insists, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Oh, come on. It’s fine. There’s a party on Sunday. Did you guys want an invite to that? I can probably swing–”

“Stop,” Jessica tells her, shaking her head. Her hair is coming loose from her braid, and tendrils of it are falling in her face. “Stop. We didn’t do this because we wanted something. Okay?”

Patsy blinks up at her, green eyes wide and bright. “Then…why did you?” and there’s so much puzzlement in her voice that Jessica feels like she’s swallowing around a stone. What is _wrong_ with her?

Matt shrugs. “I guess we were bored?”

Patsy snorts, clearly not believing a word of it, but after a minute, she smiles up at them. “Sure. You guys wanna come to that party anyway?”

“Can Lisa and Foggy come?” Matt asks immediately.

* * *

_14 th November, 2000 _

 

She drags him onto the dance floor, the living room of Lily’s place, with all the furniture pushed to the edges of the room. Foggy is trying to show Lisa how to do the Macarena, but she keeps being either a second too slow or a second too fast for the music. Foggy is teasing her about it, and both of them are grinning. In the corner, David M – Dave, these days – is glaring at them both. He is apparently still not over the fight that he and Lisa had in third grade, where they went from being as inseparable as Jessica and Matt to never speaking again. The only other person who might know something is Matt, and he’s keeping his mouth shut on the subject. 

As they both layer their arms across their middles, fingers touching their hips, Jessica smiles. Nearly everybody is dancing for this song, but afterwards, there might be fewer of them. Maybe. Foggy and Lisa are on their left, and in front of them is Lily, Patsy’s new best friend. The disco ball is scattering shards of silver light everywhere, and Jessica wishes, so badly, that Matt could see it.

_Ahai! Ahai!_

“Jess, c’mon! You’re falling behind!”

She shakes herself, and jumps in time with him. “I am _not_.”

“Yeah, you are,” Matt teases, smiling, and that’s a relief, considering what time of year it is.

“Am not!”

“Are too!” Matt laughs, and they could be five years old again, and tugging at each other’s hands on the walk to her place, or seven and bickering at ballet, or now, eleven and twirling and laughing. They keep dancing, even when the Macarena ends, and most other people have stopped, through the Cha-Cha slide, and through several fast, peppy songs. Foggy and Lisa join them, and so do some of their other classmates, weaving in and out, but for the most part, it is her, and Matt, and Foggy, and Jessica laughs with them all, pumping her fist as they jump in time to the music.

Then, in the middle of a slow song, she feels it. A slow wetness between her thighs, dripping onto the fabric of her underwear, but with no contraction of muscles. Did she just pee herself?

She feels her face heat, and she whirls around, breaking the rhythm of the dance. Where the hell is the bathroom?

“Down the corridor, the first door on your right,” Matt tells her, and for a second, she’s grateful, before embarrassment makes her furious. She stalks off the dance floor, dodging around other people, but follows his directions. At least there’s nobody inside, she thinks, as she closes the door behind her.

She goes to the toilet, pushes her pants down, and then stares at her undies.

Dark red blood on her underwear, and all of Mom’s words, spoken in her clear, calm voice, everything she’d talked about is suddenly, horribly real and right in front of her.

 _Fuck_.

She doesn’t have a pad. She doesn’t have her school backpack, with Mom’s pack of things that you always, _always_ bring to school, and what the _fuck_ does she do now–

There’s a knock on the door, tentative, but clear.

“Jessica?”

Patsy. _Perfect_ , just perfect, sweet Patsy Walker has come to make sure that everything’s okay and save the day–

“Leave me alone!”

Patsy is quiet for a minute. “…If you want me to. But I saw you leave the room, and you looked really upset. Is everything okay?”

“ _Peachy,”_ Jessica bites out.

Patsy sighs. “Now I know you’re lying. Open the door.”

“ _No.”_

“Jessica.”

There is silence on both sides of the door, and during the silence, Jessica’s eyes start to burn. Her belly is starting to hurt, there is blood on her underwear, and right now, she really, really wants her Mom.

She doesn’t open the door, but the words slip out anyway.

“I think I’ve got my period. And I don’t have a pad.”

“Oh.”

Jessica’s fingers are curling into fists, old lessons from playing with Matt in sunlight around her apartment coming back to her. She hears Patsy’s footsteps fading away, and groans. No doubt, she’s off to tell someone, and it’ll be the subject of a rumour in a few minutes.

_Why did I think that was a good idea?_

Foot-steps again, and another knock on the door, before something is slid under it. A pad wrapped in bright pink plastic, with pale blue lines striping across it. Jessica tears the wrapping off, and then stares at it.

“Sticky side down,” Patsy murmurs on the other side, her voice soft. “And the wings on the underside of the undies.”

“I knew that,” Jessica says quickly. Patsy doesn’t reply.She fumbles it a little at first, but soon the pad sticks down over her undies, and she is pulling her pants up again.

Patsy looks at her when she opens the door with a tentative smile, and Jessica stares again, because there’s something wrong with that smile. It’s not a confident, cheery ‘I just saved the day!’ smile. It’s shy, like Foggy in judo sometimes, or Phil when he talked to Tiffany Gallagher from ballet. Unsure and hopeful all at once.

_She’s just a kid. Just like us._

Guilt curls through her chest as she clears her throat. “Um. Thanks. Sorry I snapped at you.”

Patsy’s smile turns a little more confident. “That’s okay. I owed you for the Civics help, anyway.”

Jessica shakes her head. “No. You didn’t.” And then she hesitates for a second. This could backfire. This could go wrong. But…maybe it’s worth trying anyway? “Friends don’t owe each other.”

“They don’t?” Patsy sounds genuinely confused, like Jessica’s just claimed that the sky is actually bright red, and that everyone is actually wrong.

Jessica nods, then shakes her head, because Patsy’s expression is becoming more and more confused. Eventually, she settles for saying: “No, they don’t.” She shrugs. “If you ever want to sit with us, you’re welcome.” Although she and Matt and Foggy and Lisa are kind of misfits, and Patsy is at the top of the food chain, but…still.

Weird as it is, Patsy seems genuinely nice.

Patsy’s smile is not as bright as her TV one, but it is somehow nicer, prettier, even though it’s still tentative. “I…thank you. I might take you up on that, sometime.” She pauses. “So, um, I ducked back into the room to get the pad out of my purse, and Matt looked pretty worried about you.”

…Of _course_ he did.

Jessica sighs. “ _Boys.”_

Patsy snorts, and nods in agreement. “What’ll you tell him?”

Jessica considers. The odds of Matt being a jerk about this…

Pretty low, now that she thinks about it. Anna’s a nurse, and Matt has super senses. Which meant that he’d smelled the blood, which meant that he would be worried.

Jessica nods, as she comes to her conclusion, and then says: “That if he doesn’t stop worrying, I’ll punch him.”

That makes Patsy look shocked. “He’s _blind!”_

“His Dad was a boxer, and he competes in judo,” Jessica retorts. “Anyway, I’ve known him since kindergarten. He’ll know what it means.”

Patsy’s smile is oddly wistful, as she nods. “I…okay, then. You’ve known him longest, I guess.” She smiles at Jessica. “I’m glad you came to the party, Jessica.”

 _Thanks for inviting me_ is what she should say, but it gets stuck in her throat. It’s too bland for everything that’s just passed between them.

So instead Jessica says, mock-haughtily, “Yeah, I’m glad I came too.” 

Patsy throws back her head and laughs from her belly, inelegant and _real_ , and Jessica grins back at her.

Maybe she’s not so bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, one more fluff-ish chapter. Kinda. No-one's died in it, it qualifies. And we have the Jessica & Trish interaction you've been waiting for!


End file.
